Straightaway Dangerous
by zeitgeistic
Summary: During the final battle, an unexpected insult sends Fenrir Greyback on a rampage, changing 39 people into werewolves. He should've known better than to make Hermione one of that number. Includes werewolf living and culture, Draco's questionable morals, Hermione's questionable life choices, and unrequited bromance (well, it's requited a bit.)
1. It Starts with Wolfsbane

**Beta'd by raa and catcachoo**

_Much Madness is divinest Sense -_

_To a discerning Eye -_

_Much Sense - the starkest Madness -_

_`Tis the Majority_

_In this, as All, prevail -_

_Assent - and you are sane -_

_Demur - you`re straightaway dangerous -_

_And handled with a Chain_

- Emily Dickinson

**Chapter 01: It Starts with Wolfsbane**

Granger's hair only got worse after the bite. Unfortunately, so had his.

She pushed her heavy fringe out of her eyes, exhaled in such a way that her whole body seemed to deflate, and stared down into the cauldron on her kitchen table.

Draco leaned over to peer in. 'What are you doing? You're not even half-done stirring yet.'

'I _know_, Malfoy,' she said. 'It's just so hot in here. I can barely breathe, for Merlin's sake.'

Draco swished his wand and a set of numbers shimmered into existence. He cocked an eyebrow. 'It's 18 degrees.'

Still cool, despite the two bubbling cauldrons in her hearth, and the two more they were finishing up on the table. No rest for the werewolf, apparently. Such was his life these past seven years. The morning before the full moon was always the busiest day of the month for him.

'I know!' she said.

There was something off about Hermione today, he thought. He'd never paid attention to it before, but now that he thought about it, it had always been there on moon days. How had he never noticed before? Draco sniffed to be sure, then smirked. 'Are you—?'

'Yes!' she said, smacking her palm against the table. Her hand left behind a dent in the wood. 'I'm _in heat_, Malfoy. Yes. You're so clever! I must be the only female werewolf in the whole bloody world who ovulates at the full moon and menstruates at the new moon. It's not fair! Other witches only have one crap week a month; I get _two_.'

Draco lifted an eyebrow and turned back to his decanting. It wasn't very polite to sniff other werewolves on purpose, but Draco was not a very polite person, and she was not just any old werewolf. She was _his_ werewolf. Draco frowned. His _friend_, rather.

They had a few hours yet to get all these Wolfsbanes distributed, but there was no sense in risking the potency by letting them oxidise overmuch. He cleared his throat and said, 'You could take a potion for that.'

She growled. 'I wish I could take a potion for _you_ sometimes.'

'But not today,' he said.

She sighed, picked up her stirring rod. 'Not today,' she agreed.

Draco finished decanting the first cauldron and pulled another from the fire. Granger passed him the stirring rod without missing a beat, which was nothing unusual. She'd been his partner for five years, since they both finished the morally questionable, likely illegal, and highly secret training program for the Unspeakables. While he'd never admit it to their twat boss, Graves, the department hadn't been wrong when they said he and Granger had compatible magic. And compatible tempers.

And compatible monthly schedules.

They were the only two werewolves in the department, but not the only ones in the Ministry. There was Weasley, of course; Draco couldn't ever escape him, now matter how much he tried. And then there was Weasley's on-again-off-again something, Brown. Her Auror partner, also werewolf, was Draco's cousin Nymphadora.

On the new moon, the they—and of course, Potter—got together in the canteen and had a big, loud, werewolfy lunch together. It was undignified, and while Draco would have loved to put the blame for that humiliating idea at Granger's feet, it had, unfortunately, been one of his mother's schemes.

'_Let them see that you're just like everyone else,'_ she'd said, and had then paused—no doubt remembering the crushed tea set she'd had to replace just that morning. '_Perhaps just a little stronger. Ah—we could add that to our public relations oeuvre. Do you suppose that werewolf fitness programmes would take off?'_

Her own fitness programme now included a morning jaunt around the perimeter of the Manor grounds, and fox hunting at the full moon.

The bit about "stronger" was certainly true, even if the "normal but" part wasn't. Granger was the worst. She'd always been such a tiny thing before the bite (a year on the run with very little to eat certainly hadn't helped that) and Draco supposed she still wasn't used to being able to unscrew jar lids on her own, much less dislocate Weasley's shoulder when she was trying to mother hen him into sitting down to tea.

Draco gave her credit for it, though. Weasley had been a burly git even before the bite. Draco might've been an Alpha, but he could admit that it was only because Weasley was too simple to have a go at it himself, not because Draco was physically the strongest. Mentally strongest? Of that, there was no contest.

'I'm going to drop this batch off at Slug and Jiggers,' said Draco. He paused, then carefully added, 'Do you want me to take the ones down to Aberrant's, too?'

Unfortunately, she saw right through him. 'For all the fussing you make over my flat being in Knockturn Alley,' Hermione said, not looking up from her decants, 'You certainly enjoy chumming it up with my landlady.'

In truth, Draco was sort of jealous of Granger's flat. There was a nice fireplace—but it was a wizard-made building and every wizard-made building had a fireplace unless zoning ordinances were particularly contrary, so it didn't say much that there was one. It was in decent shape, had a clean loo, and was in prime location for those of abnormal circumstance. Like werewolves. No one in Knockturn Alley batted a glamoured eyelash at a werewolf, even prior to the abolition of the Werewolf Registry. It was also _not_ the same place her parents lived, which was more than he could say for his own "apartment" within Malfoy Manor.

He pasted on a sneer. It was wasted on her. 'I was only trying to be nice. You always tell me I should do that. If you don't want my help, shall I just put on my slippers, pour myself a bowl of Ogden's, and let you have at it?'

She finally looked up at that, her mouth quirking on one side. Her pointed canine peeked out between her lips in a most becoming—and beastly—sort of way. He scowled. It wasn't enough that he was a werewolf, apparently. It had to also happen that he was _attracted_ to the look of werewolves. Or maybe it was just Granger.

'As if, Malfoy. You sopped it all over my floor last time. Tonight it's just you, me, and BBC Four.'

Draco narrowed his eyes. 'No. I can't sit through another documentary. Global warming depresses me, and I can't do anything about it anyway since magic doesn't have a carbon footprint. I want to watch East Enders.'

The living room Floo flared to life before she could respond, and Draco's eyes widened at the extremely loud voice on the other end.

'Hermione? Sweetheart? It's Mum! Are you home? Dad's ready to come through to check the locks.'

Fuck,' Draco muttered.

Granger gave him a speaking look. It told him to behave himself around her parents or get out of her flat. The prospect of meeting Muggles was not something he stayed up late fantacising about. The prospect of meeting _her_ Muggles the morning of the full moon was even less so.

He chose to Disapparate.

-x-

Most witches, Hermione might suppose, would have been terrified of telling their parents they were, quite suddenly, a werewolf.

Most witches were not Hermione Granger. And most witches' parents were not Wendell and Monica Wilkins, recently of Australia, who had a magical daughter, discovered they were not, in fact, of Australia, and likewise were not Wendell and Monica. They'd put up with quite a bit from her—from magic to memory charms to moving across the globe. Hermione was always haring off on mad adventures, like camping. All good learning experiences, according to the Granger-Wilkinses. If she wanted to be a werewolf, well, they would support her "life choices".

They supported her so much, in fact, that despite all of Hermione's protestations and subtle _Confundus_ charms, it never failed that on the morning of the full moon, Wendell Granger-Wilkins (he was not comfortable returning to Clarence) would come through her Floo, in her flat, in bloody Knockturn Alley, to do a check of her doors and windows. As if a burglar might try to come through while Hermione was indisposed.

'There you are,' said her Mum, smiling through the flames. 'Having a good day off work, then?'

'Absolutely,' Hermione said.

After seven years of this routine, she'd learned to not bother trying to correct them any longer. She was, in their eyes, a hipster, and would always remain so. Muggles, it seemed, were incapable of separating real lycanthropy from _Thriller_ music videos.

Her "gardening" didn't help matters. She didn't tell Ron and Harry about that, as inviting Aurors into one's not-quite-legal activities wasn't wise, but there was truly nothing Hermione could do that would make her neighbourhood any uglier, and so, like with robbing Gringotts, she was able to justify it in her head.

Even if she did feel _sort of_ a little guilty sometimes.

'Any nice plans for the evening?' asked Mum.

She struggled for something suitably mundane to reply with. In her experience, her parents much preferred their land of make-believe where nothing hurt their daughter and she was just a big fan of shapeshifter fantasy novels. 'I think I'll read for a bit, catch up on laundry, have an early night, the usual.'

'Good for you, darling. You deserve a break. Dad's coming through now. Love you.' She leaned out of the fireplace and was replaced by a large hand reaching through, as if searching for something to hold onto. Hermione rolled her eyes, and grabbed hold of her dad's arm. He stepped into her flat, gracefully enough, all things considered.

'Good morning, sweetheart.' He ruffled her hair. Since it could not get any worse, Hermione remained unfazed. As was his pattern, he moved off towards the bedroom to begin his rounds, calling over his shoulder, 'Are you watching East Enders tonight? Sonia and Naomi have—'

Fortunately, her wand alarm chirruped, signalling that the last cauldron was ready for stirring and decanting. 'Let me just check my potion,' she called.

He continued his circuit apace. It was habit now. He knew her flat as well as she did. By the time she'd finished stirring and begun the decants, her Dad was finished. He met her in the kitchen, and peered into the cauldron like a first year. She was really going to have to break him of that habit. Eventually. It was harmless, and he found potions so fascinating that she hated to deny him.

'Smells good. What is it?'

It did not, in fact, smell good. Wolfsbane smelled _too much_. It was a confluence of dozens of highly odorous ingredients. They were all, according to human consensus, nice-smelling aromas, but they were the very definition of migraine to an actual werewolf.

To Hermione, it smelled like someone who lived off lavender and vetiver sicked up on a pollinating hydrangea bush. She eyed her father, trying not to smile. 'Potion.'

He nodded sagely. 'Is this your wolf potion?'

'Yes.'

'What would happen if I drank some?'

Hermione paused in the middle of corking a vial. Their eyes met over the steam of the cauldron and Wendell's mouth quirked up on one side. With him as her father, she'd never stood a chance against the appeals of science. He would've been a Ravenclaw, no doubt about it. With his experimental nature, he probably would have also been a dead Ravenclaw.

'I don't know. Probably nothing, since you're a Muggle.' Which reminded her to take her own. She did so, grimacing at the taste of flowers.

Her father pursed his lips as if this were a great mystery to consider. He met her eyes again. Their stare held. Hermione huffed out a sigh. She always gave in, in the end.

'Oh, fine!' She passed him the vial. 'If you tell Mum I gave you this—'

'Yes, yes,' said Dad. He uncorked it and took a small sip. His nose scrunched. She smirked. Scents could be deceiving. After a moment, he said, 'I don't feel very wolf-like.'

'That's the point.'

She sent him home with the excuse that she had errands to run, and sincerely hoped that this would not be the time that his penchant for experimental potions was the time that poisoned him, as she would be unable to hold a wand after 6:08 this evening. Knowing her father quite well, she'd triple checked multiple sources to make sure the potions she kept to hand were not harmful to Muggles. She then re-checked those sources once a year. Hermione knew it was perfectly harmless, but it was her dad, so she always felt a tiny bit nervous when she gave in to his scientific-inquiry side. It was for this reason that her mother had the St Mungo's Floo address and her father had a spare bezoar.

Downstairs, in her apothecary, Mrs Aberrant was restocking the gurdyroot while listening to Celestina Warbeck's 2004 Christmas album. It was only November. While Hermione and Draco had been up since seven completing the last stage of the Wolfsbane potions, the shops here in the Alley were just starting for the day, and it was already after nine. Lazy buggers.

'You can set them by the till, dear,' said Mrs Aberrant. 'Abner'll transfer the money to your account in the morning.'

Being partnered to a Potions Master made Hermione's life infinitely easier. Even if that Potions Master was Malfoy. Because of the importance of Wolfsbane, the potion could only be sold commercially if a licensed brewer prepared it. There weren't many of those in the UK and even fewer who'd sell it for the price of materials, which Hermione found to be exceedingly dastardly. In retaliation for those beastly old wizards' avarice, she elected to spend every full moon distributing cheap Wolfsbane to partnered apothecaries around the UK.

Naturally, Draco was indentured into helping, by way of being her friend and susceptible to her "determined" look.

She met Harry and Ron for lunch after dropping off the last of her potions at the Cardiff Werewolf Association guildhall. It had been a long morning, and she found herself slumping into the seat opposite them at the new Impervious Cauldron, Hannah Abbott's first of many planned cauldron-themed cafés. Hermione reached into her bag and fished around, withdrawing the last of her vials.

Ron took it from her with barely a glance, uncorked it between two bites of crepe, and swallowed it back. He barely grimaced. 'Thanks, Hermione. Yours are always the least revolting.'

Harry snorted. He was picking at a ham and cheese sandwich while eyeing Ron's crepe with some concern.

Hermione's eyes crinkled. 'Malfoy made that one.'

Ron faked a gag. 'Figures.' He gestured with his fork. 'Want some? It's blackberry-bacon-venison.'

In fact, she did. She pulled his plate across to her, and Ron barely scowled. He lifted his hand for Hannah's attention, gestured pointedly at his erstwhile crepe, and she nodded, hustling back to the ovens to find him a new one. Hermione munched on.

'I've no idea how you can eat that vile thing,' Harry muttered, watching warily for Hannah's blonde head to reappear. 'I can smell the blood from here.'

'So can I,' Ron said, but with far less disgust in his voice, and far more delight.

Hannah's full moon menus were stuffed with all sorts of different rare meats, and as werewolf appetite rarely subsided, it turned out to be a smart business decision on her part. The week before and the days after a full moon always saw her café full to bursting with tired, hungry werewolves and their families.

'So,' said Hermione, upon finishing the last of Ron's crepe. 'Sure you don't want to come over tonight? There's a new documentary on the cycles of climate change over the Earth's his—'

'Can't,' Ron said, before she could really get going. 'Harry's having a pick-up game of humans versus werewolves versus quaffle. I'm keeping for the werewolf team.'

'It's going to be brilliant!' Harry added.

Hermione scrunched her nose, looked from Ron to Harry. 'Is that like football?'

'Yeah, it's brill. We just made it up today at work. Lavender's the _best_ striker in Muggle football, and she wondered if she'd be any good in wolf form, and it just sort of spiralled from there.'

'Want to come?' asked Harry. 'I suppose Malfoy's welcome, too, if he's not worried about getting dirt in his coat.'

Hannah came over and set a fresh crepe in front of Ron, smiling fondly at him. Hannah did love a man who could put food away, and given Ron's lycanthropy and natural inclination to graze constantly, he blew Neville out of the water in that department. 'Thanks, Hannah.'

'Thanks, Hannah,' Hermione echoed, already forking off a piece of Ron's new crepe. 'Could I get a cuppa, too?'

Ron suffered the theft about as well as Hermione had in school, when he'd been the one picking from her plate. Sometimes she felt guilty for how much she ragged on him then. She knew what it was like to be _constantly_ hungry now. Because she was. Especially, during the week leading up to the moon and the couple of days after. Werewolf metabolism ran so fast, she'd probably starve in two days if she didn't eat.

She turned back to the men. 'Is that safe? With humans about?'

'Wolfsbane,' Harry said, waving his hand dismissively.

'Hmm,' said Hermione.

She chewed on a fat piece of blackberry-flavoured venison as she considered it. Harry didn't always come up with great plans, but sometimes he inadvertently struck gold. It was possible this was one of those times.

Every now and then, Hermione threw a little "changing party" for a handful of close werewolf friends. Nothing extravagant, but just a few people over to break up the monotony of her and Malfoy parked on the rug watching _Top Gear_ reruns. Those little get-togethers were all fine and good, but she'd never considered the idea of a party with humans about, too.

It just seemed so—so _dangerous_.

After all, it'd only been two years since they'd finally succeeded in abolishing the Werewolf Registry. She and Narcissa Malfoy had worked on it—anonymously on Narcissa's part—for almost five years before anything came of it. A targeted, relentless, Malfoy-funded pro-werewolf marketing campaign had helped, but there were still shops in Diagon Alley with crude signs declaring _NO BEASTS. THAT MEANS WOLVES TOO_.

They had a ways to go, for sure. And one drunk or git-ish werewolf could ruin the whole thing for all of them if he accidentally or on-purpose nipped a human. Hermione was deeply opposed to such a thing. She'd spent many years of her life fighting for equal rights for werewolves, but they were not yet at a place where they could weather the inevitable political storm if a new werewolf was made.

On the other hand, Harry was a private person, and it was unlikely that he would have over on a full moon any humans who were the type to cause trouble. And with Luna, Teddy, and baby Portentia about, Hermione could trust that every possible precaution would be taken.

'You trust all the humans?' she asked, just to be sure.

Harry nodded. 'Yeah, we're doing it at the Burrow, so Arthur and Molly'll be about, too, anyway. And Andromeda's coming over to help chaperone since Tonks won't be able to watch Teddy. He was dead set on coming. Hey—know anyone else who could play for the human side? We're short one.'

'Millicent, maybe,' Hermione said, barely paying attention to the conversation. She was too busy calculating all the different ways this could go horribly, irreversibly wrong—and the few ways that it could be brilliant for their cause. If it got out that Harry Potter hosted werewolves at the full moon—with his wife and toddler about—then people would take notice. No doubt there'd be a front page spread in the _Prophet_ this weekend at the latest.

'All right,' she decided. Ron and Harry beamed at her, as if they were wired up to the same smile switch. 'Draco's going to want to play centre-half. You know how he likes to stop other people from doing things they want to do.'

Harry rolled his eyes, shared a look with Ron. 'We know. Believe me.'

'Still can't believe his fantasy team's in the lead _again_ this season,' Ron grumbled.

The crepe had disappeared sometime between when it arrived and now, without Hermione noticing. She frowned down at Ron's empty plate, still hungry. Merlin, she hated moon days. It was a wonder she hadn't gained a whole stone since her bite.

Hannah brought the bill over and Ron paid before Hermione could get out her purse. The boys stood. 'Just noticed the time. We've got to run. Yewsap has Harry and me on a quick scouting mission this afternoon. Wants my nose.'

'And your ginger arse,' Harry added.

Ron ignored him, pointedly. 'You're lucky your department considers you incapable of cognizant thought processes on moon days, Herm. Mine just _capitalises_ on it.' He checked his watch again. 'Bugger—Harry we've got to go if we're going to get done before moonrise. I don't want you to have to apparate me home again. You're shit at side-along.'

Harry stopped to give her a brief hug on the way out. 'You'll really come?' he asked. He frowned, chewed his lip. 'Don't spend another moon night watching shit documentaries. We all know there's global warming; no sense in depressing yourself about it once a month. It's been two years since you killed the Registry; it's okay to have fun on the full moon.'

'We'll come,' said Hermione, suddenly feeling wrong-footed.

Harry's eyebrows went up. 'Does Malfoy know that you've started making decisions for him?'

'If he hasn't figured it out by now, he doesn't deserve to know,' said Hermione.

Harry smiled at her, and left. She sat at the table frowning down at the empty crepe plate for several long minutes. She had fun, didn't she?

Yes, she was quite sure she did. But—well, maybe she didn't _love_ watching documentary marathons once a month. And after seven years of it, it was becoming _quite_ old. Andromeda, Mr and Mrs Weasley, Harry, and Luna at least would be human. They were all competent wizards. And Wolfsbane was ubiquitous now, thanks to her and Draco.

It was _safe_. Of course, there was always the possibility something could go wrong. But then Harry would be there, and he wouldn't let anything happen. The Weasleys had a state-of-the-art changing paddock—very secure. They could use the public relations capital. Hermione wavered. What was it that Draco was always telling her?

_Untense_. Hermione sighed. She could do that. _Safe enough_, she decided.

Hermione bought two more blackberry-bacon-venison crepes to take home with her. No global warming documentary she supposed, but at least she didn't have to watch East Enders.

-x-

Draco was already back at her flat when Hermione returned. His nose twitched in the direction of her takeaway bag. He rose from the settee and prowled closer, neatly plucking the bag of crepes from her hands. Hermione rolled her eyes and followed him back to the living room, where he resumed flicking boredly through channels.

'How're your best twats doing?' he asked during an advert. He was definitely in a mood, most likely because he'd flounced off when her mother Floo'd and therefore wasn't around for her to invite him to lunch. 'Still unreformable gits?'

Hermione snatched her half-eaten crepe back from him and took a bite, chewing extra long to avoid responding since he hated waiting. 'Fine, yes,' she said at last. Then, 'You up for something a little different tonight?'

Draco turned to face her rather more quickly than she'd expected. 'What kind of something different?' he asked. His eyes were already beginning to glow faintly yellow from the upcoming moonrise, and Hermione's heart fluttered strangely. She always liked that colour on him.

Hermione handed the crepe back to him because her hands didn't seem to know what else to do. 'Well, Harry had an idea.'

Malfoy sighed and flopped back against the couch. 'Lovely. I've already entertained him once this week. Isn't that enough?'

'Humans versus werewolves versus quaffle,' Hermione continued.

He cracked one yellow eye open. 'I'm listening.'

'I told them you'd want to play centre-half.'

'Obviously,' said Draco. He began to smirk. 'It'll be Weasley and me against Potter?'

'Well, yes, obviously,' Hermione said. 'But seven on seven, like football. And with _very_ strict no-contact rules.' She gave him a stern look at this to reinforce her point.

Draco was still smirking, no doubt thinking of the unceasing competition he and Harry had going with _everything_. They managed to compete on things that Hermione would've never even thought could be won, like who got out of the interdepartmental meetings quickest or who could guess which pudding Ron would order at Hannah's. 'Will there be food?'

'It's at the Burrow, so of course,' Hermione said. 'Molly does love a barbeque.' In fact, the thought of some rare chicken with lots of sauce was making the entire evening sound rather more enticing to Hermione, as well. Her stomach grumbled. They both looked towards the takeaway bag, but somehow the two extra crepes were gone. Hermione frowned.

'Yes, let's,' Draco decided. 'Anything's better than Channel Four again.'

Hermione really wished she could argue that, but she couldn't. Even watching sport would be more fun.


	2. Humans vs Werewolves vs Quaffle

This chapter beta'd by **raa**. Thank you!

* * *

**Chapter 02: Humans vs Werewolves vs Quaffle**

Even with Wolfsbane, the change was painful, annoying, and vaguely humiliating. Hermione didn't mind being a werewolf so much as she minded not having any control over when it happened. And she hated when it fell on her birthday, which it had done. Twice.

The Weasleys had a dedicated changing paddock erected for their three infected sons, and blessedly, it was crawling with privacy wards. Hermione and the other wolves attending tonight's little soiree locked themselves in at a quarter to six to wait for moonrise. She felt not unlike a circus animal, and gave Harry a wry little smile as he set the wards behind her.

Outside, in the garden, the uninfected continued chattering on, setting plates for their suppers and bowls for Hermione's and the other werewolves'. Which was degrading, but par for the course. Even for Hermione, the mechanics of proper table etiquette escaped her when she had paws. She watched them from within the confines of her warded pen. Molly and Fleur were setting hovering lanterns in place around a makeshift football field, and Harry now had Teddy around his shoulders, running him about and roaring to Ginny, 'Argh! We're a scary mountain troll!'

Draco walked up next to her, and cast his eyes briefly down to her face. He looked back out at the people gathered in the Weasleys' back garden, and then his fingers closed over her wrist in a hidden pattern: _Situation Under Control_.

Hermione exhaled in a rush, and with it went some of her anxiety. She smiled gratefully at him. It was an Unspeakable gesture, used, for communicating whilst among the '_Speakables'_. Her heart clenched a little; Malfoy could be such a good friend to her sometimes.

She repeated the gesture to him. 'I know,' she said.

His mouth twitched downwards for a moment. There was anxiety in the movement, and she wondered if he was, secretly, just as worried as her. His hand fell away from hers. 'Have you ever changed in front of humans before?'

'Not since the early days,' she said. 'Not since I was accepted.' _To Unspeakable training_. But she couldn't say that aloud.

Having the legendary Unspeakable Croaker arrive on one's doorstep with a coded letter that had to first be cracked before any job offer was valid did tend to wake one up, rather. It gave her the motivation to pull herself up from the overwhelming depression of being a werewolf outed even before her very first change. That was even before Tonks returned to the Ministry, and there was still question on whether Hermione would _ever_ find a job, much less the job she'd secretly always wanted.

Those early days after the final battle were terrifying and confusing. With thirty-nine confirmed bites that night and several more suspected, some of which were on high-profile witches and wizards, there were some in the public sphere willing to suddenly give werewolves a chance. There just weren't very _many_.

Hermione had decided then that she would damn well control her own life. No wizard, no Muggle, would stop her again. She cracked the code in 76 hours and showed up in the Department of Mysteries that Monday.

Draco nodded, and she knew he understood every one of those unsaid words.

He was not six inches from her when they were both bitten. There would always be that one horrifying moment between them when Greyback pulled himself from beneath the rubble of the blasted wall and eyed them both, deciding whom to take first. In the end, he had swiped one big arm around each of their shoulders and tackled them down together. Hermione heard Malfoy's raw screams in her dreams sometimes, as clearly as she had that night, when she'd grabbed his hand and let him _squeeze_ as they were mauled.

When Greyback flung them away in favour of returning Harry and Ron's attacks, she landed atop him, and struggled to get him up so they could help or run, she wasn't sure which. But he'd noticed their wounds first; their blood had run _black_, and that was the moment when they both _understood_.

In front of them, Fred's leg was half-buried under a blasted wall, and all Hermione had been able to think at the time was, _Thank Merlin Greyback was mauling you_, because if he'd not been bent over Fred's struggling form when the side of the castle was blasted in, that wall would have surely killed him. Goyle laid Stunned and untouched at their feet next to the broken diadem. Twice he'd been lucky that night, Hermione always remembered with some amount of annoyance.

There was a photograph of that moment. It showed up in the _Daily Prophet _the next day, with the headline, _Chosen One to Become Werewolf?_ It was right beneath the feature story, _Boy Who Lived Lives Again! You Know Who Defeated in Epic Battle! _Hermione had numbly wondered who was stupid enough to take photographs during battle. Malfoy had it framed on his wall, because he had a dark sense of humour, and because it irked his father.

She still did not fully understand how Greyback managed to infect them all that night, but she had a nagging suspicion that it was related to however Harry had avoided developing lycanthropy, even though his blood ran black that night same as theirs. They were getting closer to an answer with their Unspeakable research. She was sure of it.

'I've changed in front of my father plenty of times. He used to brew our Wolfsbane for Mum and me,' said Draco, and Hermione blinked several times, startled by his voice.

'But never anyone who wasn't family,' she guessed.

'No.'

She nodded, watching little Teddy tumble about with Victoire on the grass. Portentia desperately wanted to play, too, but could hardly keep up with the big kids. Merlin, she was already four.

'I've never changed in front of my parents. I always came here and changed with Ron and the twins, after George…' she trailed off, not wishing to get into that. Draco was her best friend, sometimes anyway, but Weasley Secrets were Weasley Secrets. She cleared her throat. 'Bill chaperoned us.'

The atmosphere inside the pen was getting more restless. Hermione glanced at the sky. Draco's fingers pressed in that pattern on her wrist again, and she tried to relax. She could tell by instinct alone that they were within two minutes of moonrise. She wasn't afraid of the pain; after seven years of it, it was little more than an inconvenience. She was just _nervous_.

Nothing like this had ever been attempted before. There were kids about. Intellectually, she knew everything would be fine—Bill's charm had seven years' worth of testing to back it up—but she couldn't help being anxious.

Hermione heaved a sigh and turned back turns the pen. Ron and the twins were lying back on the grass, hands behind their heads, watching the moon make its way to the top of the sky. They were easy with the change in a way that Hermione still wasn't. Hermione didn't dislike being a werewolf, but she was too organised a person to ever really be wholly satisfied with a condition that controlled three per cent of her life.

Fred and George thought it all a grand lark. No one could capitalise off of a blood-borne disease quite like a Weasley twin. Especially if it was a disease they shared, and, frankly, had no problem with. No one could be _pleased_ about having a blood-borne disease quite like a Weasley twin.

Lavender and Tonks leaned back against the bars, chattering about Teddy, and also watched the sky. Hermione trusted all of these people. She felt safe that they wouldn't destroy all the work she'd done to move forward werewolf rights.

But also in the pen were two people Hermione was less comfortable with: Ernie Macmillan, who worked with Bill at Gringotts, and Marietta Edgecombe, who did not have _SNEAK_ written on her forehead anymore. Because one night some weeks after the final battle, Hermione'd felt guilty, and owled her the counter-curse. They'd hadn't spoken then or since.

'Who invited her?' she asked Draco, quietly.

He shrugged. 'I thought she was dating your best twat's brother. The one who works in the Minister's office.'

'Percy,' Hermione corrected, absently. She chewed her lip. Hermione supposed she had seen Marietta standing near him before they all trooped into the warded pen for moonrise.

'She works in Transportation,' Draco added, eyeing Marietta's tense posture.

Hermione felt that guilt again. How had she not known that? She'd thought all the Ministry werewolves had lunch with them on new moons now, but Marietta had never come. Maybe for good reason, given their history. She was obviously uncomfortable here, but Hermione was grimly impressed by the guts it must've taken to expose oneself like this in front of a horde of ex-DA members who certainly didn't have much cause to like her overmuch. And Draco Malfoy, who was, by all accounts, still mostly a twat.

The moon rose before she could think further on the topic, and then she was bent double with the shock of sudden, gut-wrenching pain. She could bear it, but the first surge always caught her by surprise. Next to her, Draco staggered back to support himself against the bars, breathing through clenched teeth. Hermione fell to her hands and knees, somehow landing partially on top of Ron. She weakly tried to move off, and their eyes met. She watched, transfixed, as the blue of his irises shrank and darkened until they were glowing gold, and then she yowled as her bones began changing, lengthening and shortening to make her body into something unnatural.

Hermione mentally enumerated the 42 Rules of Runes to distract her long enough for the change to complete. When it had, she flopped to the ground, breathing raggedly. Draco lay himself gracefully down next to her, and she wagged her tail against the grass in tired welcome. She was sore. She could've just run a marathon for as exhausted as she felt.

Once she'd regained her breathing, she pulled herself up again and looked about for Bill's ingenious werewolf-proof exit charms. They were used all over the UK now, and the proceeds from patents continued to bring in a tidy little sum for him each month.

There was one hovering near the edge of the pen, glowing red and purple inside yet another set of wards. She entered the sub-pen and stared at the collection of pictures. There was a kneazle, a phoenix, a squid, and a broom. She pressed her paw to the broom, and the puzzle disappeared to be replaced by another.

_Dreamless Sleep is to Nightmares as Pepper-Up is to ? _She pressed her paw to the box that said _Colds_ and the puzzle was replaced again.

_(14 + 2) __÷ 4 = ?_ There was no selection here, only a blank spot for her to draw in, as best she could with huge wolf feet: _4_.

Four more questions followed, including two that required she write out entire sentences, to ensure that she really was of sane mind. Finally, the wards shimmered in front of her, signalling the end of the test. Hermione slipped through. The wards sizzled and crackled against her fur as they ensured no other werewolf would try to come through with her, and she hated that part, as it always left her with static.

Across the garden, Teddy saw her and cheered. He was accustomed to Tonks doing the same once a month to prove her Wolfsbane was effective. He was also, Hermione knew, a big fan of werewolves in general.

Draco solved his own puzzles right after and they trotted over to the Weasleys et al, letting the delicious scent of lightly-barbecued chicken and lamb guide them. Mrs Weasley beamed at them as they approached and set down two legs of lamb in bowls.

'How are you both feeling?' she asked. 'No lingering pain? Hermione, I recognise your coat, but who's this with you? Is it Draco?'

Draco wagged his tail sedately against the grass in affirmation and Mrs Weasley beamed again. 'What a handsome cream coat. Ah—and there are my boys coming through now. Supper!' she called to them.

Hermione heard the sound of twelve distinct, padded feet pounding against the ground as they rushed towards them, skidding to a halt in near-identical russet-coloured bodies. Ron was bigger than the twins, and George had only one pointy ear, but all three of their coats were bright red and glossy. Hermione admitted herself jealous. Even as a wolf, she was bushy.

'Mummm!' Teddy yelled happily.

His hair was pink, as usual, and he laughed when Tonks bent down for him to climb on her back. Even in wolf form, she had enough control of her metamorphmagus abilities to turn her entire coat hot pink. They bounded around for a bit, and Hermione watched, pleased. She'd never seen Tonks around Teddy when she was transformed, but it was pleasant to watch. Lavender did not have the ability to dictate her own coat colour, but she had still managed to keep a lavender-coloured bow tied fashionably around her neck.

Luna came over then, with little Portentia, blue eyes huge and curious, trailing behind. 'Hello, Hermione,' she said. 'It's lovely to finally see you in your alternate form. I'm honoured. Portentia, say hello to Auntie Hermione.'

''Lo, Auntie Herm,' Portentia dutifully recited. 'You look diff'rent.'

Hermione laughed, and it came out like a little huff. She wagged her tail, and Portentia reached out and patted her roughly on the head. 'Pretty,' Portentia decided. Her eyes then found Draco, who was gnawing at what was left of his lamb bone, and widened further. She said, '_Really_ pretty.'

'That's Uncle Draco,' Luna informed her. 'You can pet him if he says it's okay.'

Hermione had no idea how any of them were supposed to say it was okay, but Portentia was definitely Luna's child, and, even at four, could read between lines. She was also Harry's child, and therefore unafraid of anything. At all. Even werewolves glowering at her as she approached. Still, Draco bowed his head and condescended to let Portentia ruck up his fur as she petted him backwards.

'This was one of Harry's better ideas, I think,' Luna said, when it was just the two of them. She'd sat down on the grass next to Hermione, a glass of wine in one hand.

Hermione wasn't sure she could agree with that, but she was hoping for the best, and if it came to the worst, well, she was a big wolf, and she would rip _anyone_ to shreds who tried to hurt her goddaughter. Or Harry. Or Luna, or anyone here, really. Azkaban be damned. She scanned the garden, taking in all the humans and werewolves and letting the scents of their emotions filter through her like a running commentary of goings-on.

It occurred to her then, by the distinct lack of her scent in the general area, that there was still one werewolf missing from their little group. Marietta. Hermione's heart jumped in her throat, suddenly anxious again. Had she been unable to solve the puzzles? That was hard to believe; they were meant only to prove a human mind, not require advanced intelligence. And Marietta had been a Ravenclaw besides.

'I saw Marietta lying down by the paddock,' Luna said, as if she could read Hermione's mind. Relief swept through her—not up to anything then, just antisocial. 'It must be hard on her, not feeling welcome. One tries to fit in, but it isn't always easy.'

Hermione's brow drew down in a frown. She sighed, and heaved herself up, trotting back towards the pen. It wasn't hard to find Marietta. She was a light-coloured blotch against an otherwise twilit background. She looked up as Hermione approached, no doubt smelling her long before she saw her come over the small hill. Hermione paused before her, and they eyed one another.

Marietta's ears went back submissively. Hermione approached, relieved that she wouldn't have to fight her on this.

She circled round and nudged at Marietta's bum until she rose on her feet. Marietta turned to look back at her, and Hermione nudged her bum again. When Marietta refused to move, Hermione _woofed_ lowly, and Marietta's ears immediately went down again. Percy saw them then, and waved Marietta over. Hermione smelled relief flood the air, and then Marietta headed for the gathered people, and was met with cheers from the humans present, who plied her with big cuts of meat and bowls of wine. Hermione, feeling uncomfortable again, returned to her spot by Luna and Draco, next to the artificially lit garden and makeshift football pitch.

Harry came over then, bringing her a bottle of butterbeer and a bowl. She licked his finger when he tipped it in, and he grinned down at her. 'How're my three favourite ladies?' he asked.

'We're, fine, Harry,' said Luna. 'You might want to ask that of your fantasy league partner instead.'

They all turned to Draco, and Hermione was amused to find that Portentia was now astride his back, urging him to ferry her about the garden. Draco had his paws over his muzzle, eyes closed, as if he could not bear the indignity of it all.

Harry snorted. 'Come on, Malfoy. Be a mate. Just one ride about the pitch for my kid.'

Draco glowered at him, but, to Hermione's amusement, did stand and trot off with Portentia on his back, head high and dignified. By his gait, Hermione strongly suspected that Lucius had once subjected him to many an afternoon of dressage on the Abraxans.

'She's going to want to play wolf all the time now, and I won't be able to do it for her,' Harry said, watching as Draco gained confidence with Portentia's ability to hang on, and began bounding up and down the garden.

_Oh, Harry_, Hermione thought. Her ears fell a little.

He frowned at the collection of scars on his forearm, where Greyback's teeth had sunk into his skin.

'Oh, Harry,' Luna said. She ran her fingertips over the scars and Harrys forearm clenched at the touch.

Hermione smelled arousal and something deeper, something wolves didn't readily understand, but which the human part of her thought might be intense love. She felt like a voyeur, and like she was missing out on something profound. Across the garden, Ron was play-fighting with Ernie, and Hermione wondered if that brief kiss they'd shared in the Room of Requirement could've ever led to more, if things hadn't turned out like this, if he hadn't ended up on-and-offing with Lavender all the time.

_C'est la vie_, she supposed. There was someone out there for her. She just had to find him. Or her.

'Who's ready for some football?' Bill yelled.

Harry gave them a wry, embarrassed grin, and jumped up, grabbing his daughter off Draco's back and swinging her around before depositing her in Mr Weasley's lap. Draco bounded off, barrelling into Ron and knocking him sideways. They play-fought for several minutes, but Draco won, as he always did, holding Ron's muzzle triumphantly.

Millicent had indeed come, and was lacing up a pair of cleats while she talked goblin politics with Ginny and Bill. Dean and Theo Nott were also playing for the human side, and Hermione supposed she trusted them well enough. Nott had gone back to Hogwarts to finish his NEWTs. Hermione had done a home study, but they'd met through Malfoy, and had a few pub nights all together because of it. He was a decent sort; had never had a prejudiced word to say about hers or Draco's condition, but Hermione sometimes wondered if it might be because there was something else to their friendship, at least on Theo's side.

The final spot on the human team went to Teddy, who was only eight, but had all the fierce determination of any Hufflepuff at battle. Tonks bounced all around him, and Hermione got the amused feeling that she was trying to psych out her own child. If the confused colouring of his hair was any indication, it was working. Tonks put her head to his belly and knocked him down on his bum, then seemed pleased with herself for it.

'Nymphadora!' Andromeda, sitting next to Molly, called sharply. Tonks' pink tail immediately went between her legs. 'No roughhousing Teddy while a wolf, young lady. You _know_ that.'

In short order, the game began. Draco was a brilliant centre-half, as Hermione knew he would be. The quaffle flew around them all, charmed to dodge and dive like an overlarge snitch with a four-foot altitude. Harry tackled Ron to the ground when he caught it between his teeth, laughing uproariously when his glasses flew off. There hadn't really been a great deal of thought put into strategy, Hermione suspected, but everyone seemed to be having a good time regardless. Ginny and Dean were perhaps having a little too much fun, and Tonks was more of a clumsy obstacle than any real threat, but Teddy was certainly enjoying running the quaffle passed her.

'I don't think Harry's had this much fun at the full moon since before you and Ron were bitten,' Luna said. She took a sip of her wine, and smiled down at Hermione.

_I know_, Hermione thought. She kept her eyes constantly moving though, still a little anxious about having so many humans around changed werewolves. If someone was bitten, it would be disastrous for her campaigns.

'He's flooded with wrackspurts,' Luna continued, shaking her head. 'Stress from work leaving him vulnerable, you know? Head Auror Yewsap's got him and Ron on a new case, and they think there might be werewolves involved.'

Hermione's ears twitched, and Luna smiled again as Portentia flopped in front of her and demanded her hair be braided. Luna picked up the fine, black strands and began weaving it effortlessly into an elaborate braid the likes of which Hermione'd never seen before.

'He hasn't said, but I can tell,' said Luna. 'It's in the way he gets so defensive when you or Ron are mentioned. He's worried that you're open to attack. Therefore, werewolf-related.'

Hermione desperately wished she could speak right now because she had at least a thousand urgent questions. She was going to drive herself mad with the frustration, but Luna only gazed at her again and Hermione knew that, with her, there was sometimes no need for speaking. Luna could listen well enough for the both of them.

'I do think Ron's aware,' said Luna, as if Hermione had asked the question. She'd wanted to, at least. 'This past week, they've been to the pub twice after work. But when Harry goes to the pub, he changes out of his work robes first, so of course they were really working late on a case that he didn't want me to worry about. We aren't worried about Daddy though, are we, Ten?'

'No, Mummy,' said Portentia. 'Daddy's invisible.'

'Invincible,' Luna corrected. 'He's not really, darling. Even Daddy can die. Just like you and me.'

Portentia blinked several times, absorbing this, while Hermione, horrified, looked on. She was only four, for Merlin's sake, there was no need to terrify her like that—

'Okay,' said Portentia, shrugging. 'Because death is, erm, a transfligring of life.'

'Transfiguration,' said Luna, absently. She paused to sip her wine again, and then tied off Portentia's weird braid with a tap of her wand. 'And Daddy's very smart and strong, so he probably won't die soon.'

'Good,' said Portentia. She decided then that Victoire would be more interesting, and so ambled off in that direction, leaving Hermione once again alone with Luna.

'Oh, I suppose I ought to take some photographs,' said Luna, producing a camera from somewhere in her flowy robes. 'Daddy was very pleased when Harry told him about this idea. He's planning to run a feature on it this week. _War Hero Werewolves at Large on Football Pitch_ — do you think that's a good headline? I'm not sure it really captures the sentiment. I was thinking something more like, _Pink Werewolves on Parade: the Aurors' most fashionable werewolves take on its least fashionable humans_.'

She snapped several pictures of Lavender and Tonks collaborating to tackle Ginny to the ground, then turned to get one of Hermione, flopped about on the grass. 'It was good to talk to you again, Hermione. I hope this becomes a regular thing for us. Portentia does so love seeing her godmother.'

Thus alone again, Hermione settled her chin onto her front paws and let the sounds of the game wash over her. She heard Lavender yip in pain as someone trod on her toes, and smelled Malfoy's smugness as he got the quaffle past Dean and into the net. Cheers rose up from those not playing, even Fleur and Victoire.

'Traitors!' Bill called to them.

Hermione had no idea what the score was when her nose alerted her to another wolf's approach. She lifted her head, ears up. Marietta slunk down a bit, not too much, but enough. Hermione met her eyes, agreeing, and then the other wolf came forward enough to tilt her tweed-coloured head down. Everything in her posture screamed _apology_.

Hermione sighed. She had not expected Marietta to be here tonight, but…well, she was pack. Everyone turned during the final battle was, instinctually, pack. And she wouldn't let anyone else ostracise her pack, so she couldn't in good conscience do it herself.

If Hermione could forgive Malfoy, then she could forgive Marietta.

Marietta settled down beside her, and Hermione turned her head to give her snout a brief lick. _Acceptance_, it said, to werewolves. And Hermione meant it. She would not let Marietta be left behind anymore. Because she did not leave pack behind.

-x-

Hermione woke up on the Weasleys' living room floor, sprawled half-on top of Draco's chest, with Portentia curled into her other side. Everything smelt of wet dog and grass. She pushed herself up, and came face to face with him. The alert look of his eyes spoke volumes to how long he'd been awake.

'Morning,' she said, yawning. She scrunched her nose, tried to cover her mouth with her hand, but wasn't entirely certain she'd done it in time. He smirked up at her, and she felt his hand move from her lower back. She hadn't even realised it was there until it wasn't.

'Morning,' said Draco. His voice was low and raspy with sleep, as it always was after he stayed the night on a full moon.

She peered around; Fred and George were sharing a single armchair, somehow, and Ron and Lavender were spread out along the couch. They were in one of their _on-again_ fazes, Hermione supposed. It was a dance six years old by now, and Hermione dearly wished Ron would just get on with it and propose so they could all stop living this soap opera.

In the kitchen, Molly spoke quietly to someone else, and several pans clanged dully, as if muffled by a Silencing Spell that she only heard through because of her overextended post-moon senses. Hermione pulled herself to her feet and, with a tilt of her head to Draco, went into the kitchen. Tonks and Teddy were at the table, giggling together over a shared bowl of pink porridge, and Harry was sitting across from them, happily accepting bites of egg from Luna. Molly and Arthur, standing by the sink with matching cups of tea, saw her come in and beamed. She couldn't smell Marietta or Ernie anywhere, but their scent was only a few hours old, so she reckoned they'd left right after changing back.

'Wasn't it wonderful, Hermione dear?' said Arthur. 'A roaring success! I'm chuffed, really.'

Hermione slotted a smile at him. 'It went much better than I, in the cold recesses of my mind, worried it could have gone,' she agreed.

Harry opened his eyes long enough to roll them in her direction, and then gave Malfoy, who was sitting down next to her, a speaking look. No doubt there were dozens of uncomplimentary things said about her in that one brief meeting of eyes.

'Is my kid still sleeping?' Harry asked.

'Soundly,' said Hermione.

'Brill. Molly, could I convince you to mind her for the afternoon? There're some things I wanted to run by Hermione over lunch.'

'Of course, Harry,' said Arthur. 'She can help me in the shed. I have some new Legos that need constructing.'

'Legos!' squealed Portentia, who, as it happened, was no longer sleeping. Hermione winced. Sound. She _hated_ sound the morning after the change. Any sound at all, really, but especially the high frequency sound of excited four-year-olds. Harry groaned, and she understood the feeling very well.

-x-

Narcissa called the moment Hermione stepped into her flat. She'd intended only to change into fresh clothes before Harry's mysterious lunch, but Narcissa had an uncanny ability to know when Hermione would be walking by her fireplace, and therefore unable to hide in time. Or perhaps it was just because Draco'd Apparated home moments before.

'Hermione, darling,' said Narcissa, blandly. Even in flames, her heavy eyelids blinked regally.

Hermione turned, an over-bright smile pasted onto her face. 'Narcissa, good morning. What brings you?'

Narcissa waved a hand, vaguely. 'I called to see how you were this morning.'

It was a total lie, but Hermione's smile didn't falter. She wished she were doing as well as Narcissa, truth be told. That woman could spend six days straight awake (and probably did sometimes), and still glide around looking as beautiful and refreshed as a summer's day. It was nauseating. Once, Hermione had thought there would be benefits to working on pro-werewolf campaigns with Narcissa Malfoy—benefits like access to her night cream recipes. But that wish had yet to yield results.

'Ah, you know,' Hermione said vaguely.

She continued to smile. They chatted about the lovely November weather for a few moments, and Narcissa asked Hermione if she thought Draco were getting overly thin, and whether Hermione expected that she would go see _The Poltergeist of the Opera_, which was returning to the theatre in December, before she finally came to her point.

In the background, there was a faint pop of Apparition. Hermione inhaled: it was Ron.

'I've heard tales of anti-werewolf legislation in the hamper,' said Narcissa, and waited. 'From reliable sources.'

Hermione did not even bother with pretence. She fell to her knees in front of the hearth, giving the other woman all of her attention. 'I haven't.'

Narcissa pursed her lips. 'Is it true that your Potter and Weasley have been working several werewolf cases?' she asked.

Hermione, having only just heard this information second-hand the night before, didn't bother to wonder how Narcissa found out. The woman's connections were vast, and, frankly, terrifying. That she'd heard at all, and was giving the rumour credence, was enough to raise Hermione's hackles.

'I think so, maybe. I'm meeting with them shortly actually. I think it may be about that.'

'Take Draco,' Narcissa instructed.

Hermione would have rolled her eyes, but the Malfoys did bankroll all of her werewolf rebranding campaigns, so. 'I'd planned to. He should be home now, changing.'

Narcissa waved a hand again, as if she had no idea where her son was and wasn't overly concerned. A complete and utter lie, but Hermione allowed purebloods their little idiosyncrasies, especially purebloods who were werewolves.

'Good,' said Narcissa. Then, 'Draco will be there shortly. I must meet with Lucius now, regarding the state of our winter hot house. Do keep me informed, darling.'

'Yes, Narcissa,' said Hermione, dutifully. The Floo disconnected.

'Should block your Floo from that one,' Ron advised, coming in from the kitchen.

She gave him a wry look. 'I'd like to see you block anything from Narcissa Malfoy.'

His nose scrunched, turning his freckles into one giant splotch on his nose. 'As soon as she figures out just what you and little Malfoy do at the Ministry, she'll be all over you to marry the pasty git so you can join forces more thoroughly.'

He shuddered dramatically, and Hermione made a horrified face, though likely not for the same reasons as Ron. Malfoy was her Unspeakable partner, her Wolfsbane brewing partner, and often her dinner and boredom partner. They were…well, they were friends. And had been for years. Hermione didn't mind him, even when he had his git face on. She just could not imagine the absolute nightmare of having Narcissa Malfoy as a mother-in-law. The woman never slept. Even by werewolf standards, she was a whirlwind. Hermione would never have another free moment to herself, would have to spend time with bigoted-against-everyone-but-purebloods-and-pureblood-werewolves-Lucius, and—

'Calm down,' Ron said. He sipped his milky tea. It was from her kitchen. She couldn't stand whole milk even before her bite, and after a full moon, her senses were always especially out of whack. The smell was going to make her gag. 'You smell distressed.'

'I _am_ distressed,' she growled, only then realising how true it was. Maybe she needed a holiday.

Ron immediately put his hands up in a placating gesture.

'Sorry, sorry,' said Ron. Instinctually, he tilted his head ever so slightly, baring his neck. He probably hadn't even noticed he did it, but Hermione did, or at least the wolf in her did. She calmed down, grinned at him sheepishly.

'It's been a rough week,' she said, in apology. 'Graves has been complaining about the department budget. Kingsley cut funding _again_, and _werewolf-related research_,' she said, with scare quotes, 'is low priority right now. Narcissa's sources think we might be in for another firestorm. And now, you and Harry may or may not be investigating a string of werewolf attacks. Can you blame me?'

Ron scrunched his face up, then, mercifully, Vanished the milky tea. 'Come on then. Harry's getting us a private table at Hannah's.'

Hermione sighed. 'Let me just change first.' She'd hoped for a quick shower, too, but alas. If wishes were thestrals, and all that rot.

-x-

The day they passed Unspeakable training and were partnered together, Draco was already well past the point of saving where Granger was concerned.

Head Unspeakable Croaker had handed him is exam results and un-hooded him before his fellow Unspeakables. Draco remembered blinking in the dim light, for the first time seeing the faces of all his colleagues. A second later, Hermione Granger's hood came off, and—Draco really should have been more surprised than he was.

By that time, he'd already started brewing Wolfsbane with her, and eating crap takeaway curry with her, and running into her at his mother's office many times a week as they strategised pro-werewolf campaigns. She'd been a constant in his life since that moment she squeezed his hand as they lost part of their humanity together. It shouldn't have been a surprise that she chose to be an Unspeakable, too.

It wasn't, really. It was just a surprise that, until that moment, he hadn't known how utterly lost he would be without her. How intricately she was woven into his life. How he wouldn't like to even _exist_ without her.

It was sad and it was pathetic.

He suspected his mother knew.

'Do invite Hermione to our little soiree,' said Narcissa as she rose from the hearth, graceful as any queen. She levitated a wax-sealed envelope to Draco with an absent flick of her wand. The front of it said, in his Mum's flowing calligraphic hand, _Mademoiselle Hermione Granger_.

Draco narrowed his eyes. 'We had better not be having a French theme this year.'

'Pah, darling,' said Narcissa. 'Have you forgotten? New Years Eve will be a moon night. I simply felt that "Miss Granger" was too…_Hogwarts_.'

Draco's fingers clenched around the parchment. 'Then how do you expect to host _a little soiree_ this year?'

'I'm afraid I'm pilfering the idea from your Potter.'

'He's not my Potter,' Draco replied automatically.

She waved a hand. 'Do you or do you not participate in a fantasy Quidditch league with him every year?'

Draco hardly thought that was relevant. He did that because he liked to beat Potter and Weasley. It didn't matter if it was at Quidditch, fantasy Quidditch, or fly-fishing. So long as he won. Or more importantly: so long as they lost. But then, his mind let him see past his testosterone, and he finally absorbed the actual words his mother had said. 'What do you mean by _Potter's idea_?'

'A _changing party_, darling. It's rather avant-garde, don't you think?'

'It's rather _suicidal_, I think,' he said. 'It was dangerous enough last night, but mostly Weasleys, so still largely normal even if the whole lot of them were werewolves. You can't tell me that you expect to hold a New Years Eve gala, with hundreds of drunken guests, many of them werewolves, and expect nothing to go wrong. What does Father think about this idea?'

And further: how did she even find out about the bloody thing so quickly?

'Oh, he hates it, of course,' said Narcissa. She moved over to the settee and picked up her needlework.

'Of course,' said Draco. Then, 'Hermione will never agree to this. It's madness.'

'She will,' Narcissa said. 'Because I'm inviting the wizards who are even now writing up brand new anti-werewolf legislation.'

Draco froze. 'What?'

His mother looked up from her stitches. She smiled, but it was full of repressed fury. 'Yes.'

'But we just sorted the Werewolf Registry two years ago!'

'I know, darling,' said Narcissa.

She snapped her fingers, and a house elf appeared with tea. Draco scrunched his nose at the smell of cream, but otherwise made no move.

Narcissa continued: 'But they seem to think that werewolves should have restrictions on their Apparition licenses. _Alors_, I rather think these are people who we want to keep an eye on. Believe me, the werewolf guest list will be _very_ closely vetted—only the absolute most trusted. And your father will be there, of course, to trigger the wards if the need arises. Which it won't.'

Draco exhaled in a rush, but the frustration didn't leave him. He stuffed the invitation in his pocket. 'I have to go.'

'Give Potter my regards.'

'Oh, for fuck's sake,' Draco muttered as he turned to leave. He knew his mother heard him—she was a werewolf after all—but she could scent his mood well enough not to comment on it. He stalked to the Apparition antechamber and Disapparated with an angry twist.

He landed outside the Impervious Cauldron, and prowled inside, still angry. Only Potter was there, thank Merlin, because Hermione or Weasley would surely have been able to smell his fury before he even reached the table. As it was, he got a few odd looks from other werewolves as he passed their tables, but one strong glower in their direction had them tipping their necks in submission. He ignored them all in favour of slouching down at the banquette Potter secured for them.

'Malfoy,' Potter greeted, happily enough.

Draco sneered. 'Potter.' He tapped his foot. The invitation was burning a hole in his pocket, and since he was wearing Burberry robes, he liked that not at all. 'Where's Granger?'

'Ron went to round her up,' said Potter, shrugging. They stared at each other for a few minutes. Potter raised an eyebrow. 'What's up your arse?'

Draco wrinkled his nose. Then, huffing, reached into his pocket and deposited the invitation on the table between them. 'You've created a monster, Potter. And I have a feeling that I'll mean that literally, soon enough.'

'What do you mean?'

'Mother's hosting a _changing party_. On New Year's Eve. And inviting humans. I'm sure your invitation will be along shortly.'

'With…with people?' asked Potter. Upon seeing Draco's exasperated look, he clarified, 'I mean, people who aren't family? Like, "acquaintances" people?'

'Unfortunately so,' Draco agreed.

The door jingled, and Hermione's scent materialised. Draco relaxed a little. Potter turned to watch their approach, but Draco didn't need to; he could tell Hermione's precise position by the strength of her smell alone. She slid into the banquette next to him, and, wordlessly, he pushed the invitation to her.

She looked at him, frowning, all dark eyes and pointed nose—vaguely Eastern European and wholly mesmerising. Not for the first time, Draco wondered if some relative, way back, could be found on a Durmstrang student list.

'What's this?'

Draco scowled. 'My mother's doing.'

She lifted an eyebrow in understanding, then slipped a finger beneath the seal, popping it away. Her eyes scanned the parchment, and she frowned again. 'This is absurd.'

'What's absurd?' said Weasley, pulling up a chair on the end. His arms were full of Yorkshire puddings and behind him, Hannah Abbott floated two plates of kippers, at least a pound of bacon, two Cornish hens, and four glasses of Sparkling Cauldron Juice, the café's signature drink. Draco was fairly certain it was only grapefruit juice, elderberry extraction, muddled blueberries, and a bubbling charm, but he could appreciate an entrepreneurial woman, so he held his tongue. Anyway, it tasted good.

'Narcissa Malfoy,' said Hermione absently. Her eyes were now firmly fixed on the Cornish hen.

'Could've told you that,' said Potter.

Draco shot him a dark look. 'Mind your tongue about my mother, Potter.'

Potter shrugged and reached for one of the kippers, but a growl from Weasley had him pulling his hand back with speed. Draco smirked and took some bacon. No one growled at him.

'Anything else for my favourite customers?' asked Hannah.

'I think I need a salad,' said Potter. 'This lot's unlikely to let me have anything else. Mind you don't send out Caesar dressing with it, in case they smell the anchovies.'

Probably wise, Draco admitted. Granger was already on her second kipper as it was. 'Have you got any more of those blackberry-bacon-venison crepes?' asked Draco. 'The ones from yesterday?'

Hannah wrinkled her nose. 'Yeah. Probably a bit stale by now.'

'Do I look like I care?' he asked. 'We'll take whatever's left.'

She rolled her eyes, and turned away to do as he asked. A dozen different privacy spells from four different wands sprung up around the banquette as soon as she left. The air sparked with the upsurge of magic.

Draco slid his wand away. 'What's this about you two morons on a string of werewolf bite cases?'

'How did you find out so quickly?' asked Potter.

'Mother told me just now,' said Draco.

'Luna told me last night,' Hermione added.

Potter frowned. 'I haven't even told Luna yet…' He trailed off, as three heads turned to give him very pointed looks. Even Draco knew there was no point in hiding something from Lovepotter, or whatever she was calling herself these days. 'Right.'

'They aren't bites, really,' said Weasley, in that slow way that made Draco wonder if he wasn't sure how to form sentences or if he was trying to be dramatic. The latter, as it turned out.

'What do you mean, not _really_?' said Hermione.

He tore off a bite of chicken thigh, but thankfully chewed and swallowed before replying. 'Well, see, there aren't any victims, are there?'

Draco exhaled in frustration, leaning back against the banquette seat. 'Then how are there _crimes_?'

'Magical residue's off the charts,' said Potter. 'Neighbours call and report 'disturbances', but by the time we get out there, no one's around. There's werewolf magical signatures in the area, but no werewolves. Or blood. Or anything really. Something's going on, but no one's missing. Like the victims don't want to be found.'

Hermione inhaled sharply. 'No.'

Draco frowned. He had a feeling he knew exactly what she was thinking. 'Bite cults?' he guessed.

'That's what we're thinking,' Weasley agreed soberly. 'I bloody fucking hope not.'

'This is the last thing we need,' Hermione groaned. Weasley nodded in agreement.

'We're still trying to find a link,' Potter added. 'Nothing so far. Ron hasn't been able to distinguish any scents from the crime scenes. Everything's…how did you say it?'

'Muddled,' said Weasley. 'Like if you took a dozen werewolves, wrung 'em out into a cauldron, stirred it up, and then poured it on the ground.'

Draco knew exactly what he meant. He frowned. Because it was impossible. Werewolves each had their own scent, partially determined by their human lives and partially determined by their magical signatures. It was something even more distinctive than fingerprints. Even Weasley's twin brothers had vastly different smells.

'Mother thinks there's anti-werewolf legislation in the works,' said Draco. 'Could there be a connection?'

'Maybe,' said Potter. He bit his lip. 'Fuck. Probably. Who knows, really?'

Not Draco, that was for sure. He ate a piece of bacon while he thought, though he didn't really need an excuse for bacon the day after the full moon.

'I hate to say this,' said Hermione then, 'but…maybe we should go to the New Year's Eve party. Narcissa's usually right about this sort of thing, and if she is, we need to get as close as possible to the people behind the strings.'

Draco grimaced. _New Year, New Wolf!_ the invitations read. He hated taking risks like this, but he _despised_ the thought of someone trying to fuck with his pack's safety. Granger's safety in particular. 'I agree,' he said.

Weasley shrugged, and the gesture was mirrored by Potter. Merlin, it was like they were the same person sometimes. If he hadn't married Lovegood, Draco would have been certain there was something going on there.

Hermione tapped the _Accept_ option on the invitation with her wand, and it disappeared in a puff of sparkly smoke. She grinned up at Draco, a little wryly. 'Are you going to be my plus-one?'

'Obviously,' said Draco, as casually as he could. Then, 'Who else would accept a date with a werewolf?'

She laughed, but the pathetic thing was, he hadn't been joking. Much. She bumped her shoulder against his playfully, and offered him another slice of bacon. Well, he could live with this, he supposed. There were worse things after all—like Granger not being around at all.


	3. Not Quite the YMoB Award

**Chapter 03: Not Quite the Young Magiscientists of Britain Award**

'_Demon blood!_' Narcissa snarled, slamming the _Amsterdam Augury _onto her desk. The force of it puffed a gust of air out, sending several documents floating off the edge. 'How dare they?'

Hermione rubbed her temples. It was Friday and her lunch break, for Merlin's sake. She should be spending it having a high-protein _lunch_, not planning counter-attacks with the coldest woman in Britain—well, cold to everyone but her two _darling men_, of course.

Hermione chanced opening her eyes, and immediately wanted to close them again. There it sat, the Dutch wizarding paper, glaring back at her. The subtitle ran: _New study into werewolf blood suggests ties to Demons, Fiendfyre_.

What rubbish. Where was the supporting research? What, in fact, were the authors of said study's qualifications?

Still, libel laws were few and far between in wizarding Britain. Of course they were, Hermione thought in annoyance; they were decades behind Muggles. Once the _Daily Prophet_ got wind of it, everyone would know, true or not. Praise Merlin for the wizarding world's communication channels still being so utterly Victorian. Hermione reckoned that they had forty-eight hours before the story broke in Britain.

She scanned the article again, scowling. Just because her blood was darker than a normal human's—black, in fact, under most light—didn't mean she was a Demon. It just meant she had an abundance of a different kind of "white" blood cells—_obviously_, since lycanthropy was a disease—and that those white blood cells happened to be dark green and made from a combination of copper and acetic acid. Mixed with red cells, her blood looked black. _Honestly_, children learned how colours mixed in primary school for heavens' sake.

She had the same molecules as normal human blood, just in different arrangements.

No sulphur, no brimstone, no Demons.

The change in werewolf blood cells from leukocytes to what she and Malfoy had coined "chlorocytes" was one of their foremost research efforts. They were making progress on it, and damn it all to hell if some ruddy reporter hadn't bollixed it all up before they could publish. Now, whatever their findings, it would look defensive, as if they had an agenda.

They did. That was beside the point.

'Narcissa, what could you possibly expect to do about it?' asked Hermione. 'You know as well as I that anonymous sources are beyond the reach of the court. They're not British; our laws don't cover non-nationals—they hardly cover nationals, in fact. Another _delightful_ artefact of our weakling government.'

_A government your husband once took great pains to set up, so as to better serve his own agenda_, Hermione thought_._ Their eyes met, and Hermione knew Narcissa saw the unspoken words in her expression. The two of them, they didn't even need _Legilimency_ to read one another's mind.

Narcissa's eyes narrowed. She re-seated herself behind her ornate desk and took up a white peacock feather quill. She dipped it in a pot of actual silver ink—ever the ironic snob, even as a werewolf—and scrawled a long name on a crisp black envelope. She handed the enveloped to Hermione, who frowned upon reading it. _Head Auror Ursula K. Yewsap_.

'You can't be serious,' said Hermione. 'I'm just a consultant. I'd never get close enough to give it to her, and as Head Auror, she would be stupid to accept unsolicited letters from me if I did.'

'Your little saviour knows her. He could get close enough.'

Hermione began to pace. Sometimes Narcissa was just too much to bear. 'Must you always bring Harry into your Machiavellian machinations, Narcissa?' she asked. 'He hates political intrigues. He has a _wife_ and a _baby_.' Hermione waved her hand about vaguely, trying to show the theoretical importance of such things. 'And he's already said he'll come to your gala.'

'Yes, and now I want the Head Auror to come as well. It's never a bad thing to have friends in the Auror Department.'

Hermione sat down again. She already had friends in the Auror Department. Four of them, in fact. 'What are you saying?'

Narcissa eyed her, looking quite bored. 'Darling, you can't believe that absolutely nothing will go wrong when a passel of ignorant and frightened humans are put into a ballroom with several dozen werewolves, my handsome criminal husband, and twenty full cases of champagne?'

'No, I can't believe it,' Hermione said stiffly. 'Which is why I must reiterate that I think this idea is madness. If you're so sure something's going to happen, why are you forcing the issue?'

'Darling Hermione,' said Narcissa, in her lovely, frigid tone. She leaned forward. 'That is the entire point. Something will happen, and it is yours and my thankless job to ensure that the attack comes from the human half, and not the werewolf half. If we're to weather this Demon blood storm, we need to set ourselves firmly in the victim camp.' She leaned back again and twirled her hand, elegantly dismissive.

'Now, you and Draco stick to your whatever it is you do, your Potter will stick to ensuring the right humans RSVP "yes", my husband will stick to writing cheques, and I will stick to planning our next campaign. The game has changed, dear Hermione, and we must change with it.'

Hermione looked back down to the blaring headline on the _Augury_, sighing. Narcissa was, unfortunately, right. The game had changed. It was just that Hermione hated when _rules_ had to change, too. It made her feel unsettled. If only they could just cure the bloody disease once and for all, then there wouldn't be anything to discriminate against. Well, except for all the other things wizards liked to discriminate against.

'Fine,' Hermione said. 'But I _will_ see the guest list before you finalise it. I don't want any werewolves here that either Draco or I can't keep in line. No non-pack.'

'Pah,' said Narcissa. 'You are not _my_ Alpha—the stern voice does nothing for me. I am Beta to _no_ wolf, darling. I intend to send invitations to five respected werewolves of my generation, and both of the recently outed Wizengamot members.'

'My pack only,' Hermione repeated, eyes narrowed.

'_And the rogues_,' said Narcissa, narrowing her eyes in return. 'I shan't snub Sterling or FitzGryphon. They were clever enough to sit on the Wizengamot for decades without anyone discovering their lycanthropy and I want them on our side. They might be unpredictable, but they're each over two hundred years old, and I hardly think up to much beyond a bawdy chorus of howls once they're in their cups.'

Hermione growled in frustration, but nodded. Working with Narcissa Malfoy was a constant struggle of give and take. She could give in on this one, with the expectation of taking a different win further down the line. 'Agreed.'

'Wonderful!' said Narcissa brightly.

Hermione's wand chirruped, warning her of the approaching end of her lunch break. Lovely. She stood. 'A pleasure, as always, Narcissa.'

'Likewise, darling.'

The door opened as she neared it, and, to her never-ending poor luck, Lucius Malfoy entered. He sniffed haughtily. 'Granger.'

Hermione did not have time for this. She growled in his general direction, and he gracefully—and quickly—stepped aside so she could pass. One of the ever-present house-elves escorted her back to the Apparition antechamber, and within moments, she was back at the Ministry, stalking through the Atrium and barely noticing the wizards and witches who scuttled out of her way.

In the lift, she jabbed the button for the second floor and waited impatiently for the ancient old thing to carry her up. The Welcome Witch's disembodied voice said, "_Second floor: Department of Magical Law Enforcement_." Hermione stepped off, and immediately smelled Ron and Harry, both in the conference room at the back. The door was open; she peeked in and found them both stuffing their faces with ploughman's and prawn-flavoured crisps. She wrinkled her nose.

Ron noticed her first, no doubt by her smell, which was unfortunately strong to other wolves in the few days before and after the full moon. 'Hermione! What are you doing here?'

She came fully into the room and set the black invitation in front of Harry. 'Business, I'm afraid. I come bearing gifts from Madam Merlin herself.'

Harry eyed the envelope, absently licking a dab of mayonnaise from his finger. Hermione tried not to retch. 'This scheme is getting rather _involved_,' he said.

Ron snorted. 'She's a Malfoy, Harry. That's what they do. No doubt this is practically a day off for her.'

Hermione could only agree with that assessment. 'I'm sure she has even more up her bespoke sleeve.'

Harry thankfully _Scourgified_ his fingers before tucking the envelope away in his Auror robes. 'I'll try to find a good time to give it to Yewsap,' said Harry. He frowned. 'She's out today, though. Another maybe-werewolf incident during the full moon.'

Hermione's heart lurched. 'No victims again?' she asked, hopefully.

Ron gave her a brief, tense smile. 'None so far. But this is the first time there's been a disturbance at the full moon, and she wanted to investigate herself. It's been really tense around the office today. Tonks, Lavender, and I got put on desk duty for at least the week,' he added, grimacing. 'And Harry by default. Yewsap's afraid we might be targets.'

'Well good,' said Hermione. 'If there's any chance you might be, I'd rather you were bored and safe than entertained and dead.'

'Werewolf,' Ron reminded her, pointing at his chest. 'Damn near indestructible.'

'Save for _Avada Kedavra_,' Harry reminded him. There was a split-second when Hermione knew they were all thinking of Remus Lupin, but she determinedly pushed the thought away.

'Your _reputation_ is not indestructible,' Hermione added. 'Nor the reputations of all other werewolves, by extension. And the office is a good alibi if things go pear-shaped.'

Ron dropped his forehead to the conference room table. 'Go be right elsewhere, Hermione,' he said. 'I'm trying to enjoy my lunch. Where's your lesser half anyway? Can't you go be right around him?'

Hermione sighed. 'Probably still working on that bloody potion,' she said, mostly to herself. She wondered if Malfoy had left their office at all for lunch today. Maybe she should bring him something to eat. Definitely nothing with dairy in it.

'The blood one?' asked Harry. 'Still at it?'

'Malfoy never gives up on anything,' she said. Which was the truth. He was like a Crup with a treed fox when it came to curing their disease. He'd go on doing his job until he starved if the fox never came down.

'That's bloody true,' Ron muttered. He and Harry shared a particular look, one that Hermione understood to be Quidditch-related. On that note, it was time to leave.

'I'll leave you to your masculine look-based communication,' she said. 'Oh, and Harry—Luna Floo'd me this morning. She was asking where I bought Crookshanks? Not sure what it was about, but I told her it was the shop in Diagon. Good luck if Ten wants a kitten.'

She breezed out without waiting for his reply. _Poor Harry_, she sometimes thought. He was so hopelessly in love with Luna, and the longer they were married—it was going on five years now—the weirder his home life became. Things went on in that household that Hermione had no desire whatsoever to find out about. Things that baffled her. He'd agreed to name his daughter Portentia La Potter, after all. So weird.

-x-

Back on Level Nine, and girded with two chicken vindaloos, Hermione pushed open the door to hers and Draco's shared office-dash-lab. There were stacks of books pushed up against the door and she had to squeeze to get through. Draco's eyes flicked up to follow her progress, but his stirring didn't stop. She watched his mouth move, counting numbers under his breath, and got that strange feeling she sometimes felt when he did something noteworthy with it, like bite his bottom lip or smirk or sneer.

'Got you a vindaloo,' she said, setting it down on the worktable.

'No naan?'

'No naan,' she confirmed.

Draco smiled his secret smile at her—the one most people didn't think existed—and continued with his stirring. For a werewolf, he had a terrible weakness for baked goods, and always got in a strop when she had them to hand—something about them being "too frustrating to resist", and "impeccable, washboard abs". Hermione wasn't sure. She usually tuned him out.

Hermione moved to her desk and started sorting through all the paperwork she would've had finished by now if she wasn't obligated to a two-day forced holiday once a month.

'I assume your mother sent you the same owl she sent me, about the Amsterdam article,' she said absently, and heard the answering, "Mm," as she flicked through a stack of memos they'd received while she was out. She sighed. 'I spent my entire lunch break there, and we're no closer to coming up with a counterattack than we were when I arrived. She's more determined than ever to have this gala go off well.'

Narcissa's idea of "well" was different from Hermione's.

Hermione heard Draco's stirring rod clack against the table as he set it down, and turned to face him. His face was flushed and shiny and the hair at the nape of his neck was curling from the steam. It suited him, she thought. She always thought that when they were brewing together.

'I know. Father contacted me about installing those puzzles for the Manor,' said Malfoy. He came and leaned his hip against her desk, staring down at her with his arms crossed over his chest. 'For Mother's _little soiree_.'

'God and Merlin help us,' Hermione muttered.

Bill would be pleased with the extra work, though; the number of puzzles required for Narcissa's party would more than cover all the Christmas presents he'd owe his children, nieces, and nephews, with plenty left over to buy Fleur a set of dragon pearls.

Hermione returned to the stack, frowning, and half-distracted by the memo reminding all Ministry employees to clean out the food from their preservation spells before leaving for the holidays, as no one wanted to come back to an office full of rotted takeaway. Boring. As if she and Malfoy ever _had_ any leftover food. She flipped to the bottom where there was a new assignment packet doused in secret-keeping spells—their new assignment. Her fingers clenched around the parchment, her eyes widening as she read through the details.

Above her, Draco sighed, shifting on his feet. She caught the movement of his hips from the corner of her eye, and wished that Harry and Ron would invest as much in such nice tailoring. His impatience was almost tangible. She set the assignment aside; he wouldn't let her get anything done unless she humoured him first.

'Is that the chlorocyte genesis-detecting potion?' she asked, thinking that they really should come up with an acronym for it. 'It smells nearly done.'

'Mm,' Draco agreed. 'Three minutes.'

They'd been working on this potion for a long time, doing trials with different blood samples, trying to tease out the recipe that would show them why their blood generated differently than someone uninfected, like Ginny.

And further, they hoped it would show what made their werewolf blood generate differently than someone who'd been bitten, bled black like them, and never changed. There was only one person who'd ever done that, and it was Harry. Hermione was sure that was the key to the disease—figure out why Harry was able to resist it, and they would figure out what kept it alive in their own veins.

Hermione nodded. 'I think we still have one of Harry's samples left, so we can test his along with one of the human and one of the werewolf samples.'

She really hoped this potion showed some promise. Maybe they'd finally get that extra funding and Graves would stop riding their arses about _results_. This was their last chance, really. They were out of funding for this particular idea and the Department wasn't keen on issuing more.

Hermione grinned a bit, if only to keep things from getting tense. 'Graves will have Kneazles if it works,' she said. 'I see a Young Magiscientists of Britain Award in our futures, Malfoy.'

She passed him the packet with their new assignment. 'Take a look at this. A new side project _straight from Apex_. It's brilliant. Can you believe they've even _heard_ of us? Our lycanthropy research must be making an impression.'

Hermione had no idea who Apex was other than the mysterious Head of the Department of Mysteries, but she did know that whoever he or she was, they were the most powerful person in Britain, perhaps Europe, perhaps more. Hermione'd heard that not even the Minister knew their real identity. She believed it.

Malfoy's eyebrows rose as he read through. 'The Killing Curse…' he said, trailing off.

She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, then flicked her eyes back up to his when he spoke again. 'We're not even Senior Unspeakables yet,' he said. 'We don't even _know the identity_ of most of the Senior Unspeakables yet. And Apex is assigning this to _us_?'

He sat down on the edge of her desk, blinking. He said, 'This must be what Weasley feels like when the Cannons aren't first to be eliminated in the season.'

She swatted his thigh and snatched the packet back from him, excitedly re-reading the task list, committing it to memory, and reading it again. A research grant, just for them, to study the magic behind Avada Kedavra, what made it work, and what made it so unstoppable. She shook her head, still a little overwhelmed. 'Don't be awful, Draco.'

His wand buzzed, signalling the potion was ready for decanting, and they both jumped up and hurried over, nearly—but not quite—forgetting the brilliant new assignment from Apex in their excitement over the chlorocyte genesis-detecting potion.

The potion was white, just as they'd theorised when developing it. Hermione was nearly buzzing with excitement and Draco looked as if he weren't doing much better.

'I'll get the blood samples,' she said, and hurried over to the cold-spelled cabinet where they had dozens of phials of their own blood and blood from their friends, both human and werewolf. Draco was already decanting the elixir. He poured the last of it into three glass bowls and Banished the extra phials to the cabinet.

Hermione set a single phial in front of each bowl. Their labels read, 'Werewolf: Lavender Brown,' 'Human: Ginny Weasley,' and '?: Harry Potter.'

Draco picked up Lavender's and flicked back the cork with his thumb. The scent of blood soaked the air, and Hermione was unable to hold back a little whimper. She began to salivate, even as her stomach turned. Wordlessly, Draco Summoned her a blood-flavoured lolly from her secret stash. She gave him a grateful glance, unwrapped it, and shoved it in her mouth before she embarrassed herself further.

He tipped Lavender's blood into the bowl of chlorocyte genesis-detecting potion, then followed suit with Ginny's and Harry's samples. Draco took a stirring rod and mixed each of the bowls. They watched the red—and black, in Lavender's case—blood swirl through the mixture before settling.

Hermione bit her lip, waiting anxiously. Draco's fingers were clenched around the table edge and it looked like he might squeeze right through the wood. It wouldn't be the first time.

'How long should it take?' she asked him.

His heartbeat was going faster than normal; she could hear it. He shifted on his feet. 'The red blood cells should separate out within a minute,' he said. Their eyes flicked to the clock on the wall opposite, listening for the tiny ticks to count them down.

A minute went by, and Hermione looked down again. She frowned. All three of the bowls were still the same colour. There was no change in any of the three samples. They even still smelled as delicious to Hermione as they had before, which was terribly unfortunate.

'_Fuck_,' said Draco savagely.

She sighed, then noticed something wiggling about in the three bowls. 'Wait, look. It's separating out the plasma, I think. That's something.'

Draco bent down to peer into the first bowl. He moved to looked through the side, where Hermione could see that there were now two layers to the potion—a deep black one of their red blood cells, platelets, and chlorocytes, and a snot-coloured one of elixir and plasma.

Malfoy stood, huffing. 'Not enough for more funding.'

'No,' Hermione agreed. She sighed again. 'Well, at least we have the new assignment from Apex.'

He turned to her, sneering in the way he did when he felt trapped or blindsided or just really disappointed. 'Bloody lot of good that's going to do us,' said Draco. He flung his hand out angrily, and the contents of the bowls vanished, along with the bowls themselves. Lovely. That was their best set of purified mixing bowls. She eyed him fiercely, and he made another angry slash of his hand. The glass bowls reappeared, empty.

'Thank you. We're closer than we were,' she said. 'Don't forget that.'

'How the fuck could I?' he asked. 'We've been doing this for _years_, Hermione. _Years_. And each new combination gets us incrementally further along. But what if there's no solution? What if we're on some asymptotic path that gets us closer and closer and closer, but never touches on the solution? We could spend our entire fucking, furry lives doing this job, and end up with _nothing_ to show for it.'

'Let's put this aside for a couple weeks and work on the new assignment,' she suggested.

'We're out of funding,' Draco muttered. 'This was it. We'll be putting it off forever, because I failed.'

Hermione rolled her eyes. Malfoys. 'How funding is even a concern for you, I'm certain I've no idea. Or have you forgotten you're a Malfoy, for St Ailbhe's sake.'

He grunted. She thought maybe she was getting through to him. Hermione did hate it when Draco got depressed over their condition. It wasn't that bad. Sure, she couldn't have children, and sure people spat on them sometimes, and sure she had to pay higher employment taxes, but it could've been worse. At least they were allowed to hold jobs now. At least they were allowed in some of the shops.

She tried again: 'Let's table the chlorocyte genesis-detecting potion for a bit. Maybe we've been thinking about it so much that we're overlooking something.'

'Yeah,' said Malfoy. 'Like our lives.' He yanked off his brewing apron and threw it across the room. It landed somewhere between their two desks. He ran a hand through his hair, sending it into disarray. 'Fuck this. I'm taking the afternoon. See you tomorrow.'

He stormed out of their office, and the entire Department of Mysteries, before Hermione could even get her wits about her.

-x-

She found him at her flat, as she'd half expected to. He was sprawled on her couch, switching angrily from BBC One to BBC Four. There was a global warming documentary on. It was late, and the only light in the flat came from the television screen. It reflected eerily from Malfoy's eyes as he tracked her progress into the room.

She set a box of takeaway kebabs on the coffee table before him, as a peace offering.

'There's nothing on,' he said, pausing briefly at a _Top Gear_ rerun.

'It's midnight,' said Hermione, taking off her cloak and tossing it over a chair.

Draco grunted and stretched. His shoes were off and her green cashmere throw was tucked all around him. He slept on it sometimes during moon nights, and it would hold his smell for weeks afterwards. 'I didn't want to go home,' he said.

Hermione knew. He often ended up on her couch when he was frustrated about their research.

She set her bag of sproutlings and pruning sheers on the table next to the couch and stretched. She was always a little sore after messing about with her not-exactly-legal hobby, but it was good for taking out frustrations, and Knockturn Alley had seen worse vandalism in its day, even Hermione could admit that.

He'd been so stressed lately. Hermione bit her lip, deliberating. With a sigh, she decided he could do with some _untensing_, as he was always instructing her to do, himself. She reached into her endless handbag and brought out her last trick. A sack of dried wolfnip, courtesy Neville Longbottom's less-academic pursuits. She placed it on the table by the kebabs, one eyebrow raised.

Draco snorted. 'Am I that bad off?'

'You tell me,' Hermione said. She prodded at his feet until he lifted them long enough for her to sit down. He flexed his toes and she obliged him, absently rubbing the bottoms of his feet as she watched polar ice caps melting on the telly. Merlin, it was depressing. 'It's from Neville's garden,' she tempted.

He didn't speak for a long time, and when he finally did, it startled her.

'Fuck it,' he said, and reached for the bag of wolfnip. 'I'll embrace my misfortune.'

Hermione rolled her eyes. Only Malfoy would complain about a perfectly legal plant that only did anything for him because of his lycanthropy. Truthfully, it wasn't much stronger than pipe tobacco, but melodrama was a Malfoy speciality. She grabbed a kebab and chewed on it as he rolled up the wolfnip.

He lit it with his wand and the orange glow flared, illuminating her walls and his face. He flopped back, exhaling slowly at the ceiling. 'Thanks,' he said, quietly.

'You're welcome.'

He eyed her sideways. 'Never expected you to bring me any of this. In fact, I'm surprised Longbottom even sold it to you.'

'I'm _untensing_,' she said. Then, just to be sure he didn't get any ideas, she said, 'Don't get used to it. This was a one-time thing, Malfoy. I'm not condoning this pastime of yours and Ron's.'

'Of course,' he said, but he was smirking.

Well. She'd give him something to smirk about. She plucked the wolfnip from his fingers and took a drag. Her parents would kill her for this. Smoking stained the teeth. But it was a rare thing, so she was far from inundated by guilt. She took a final drag and handed it back to him, then took up his feet again. He had such big feet. It was strange to compare them to her own.

'Have you been here all night?' she asked, ignoring the curious look he was giving her.

'Mmhm,' he said. 'I went to the Manor first, but Mum smelled me immediately and thought to recruit me for dinner with Father's business associates. As if.'

She let the silence settle over them for a few minutes, with only the white noise of the BBC to fill it. The steady flare and fade of the cigarette against her flat walls was strangely calming—peaceful and somehow intimate. After many minutes, when the stress of the day was finally sliding from her shoulders, she said, 'Are you staying?'

It took him forever to reply. She didn't know if he was thinking or just ignoring her. Finally, he said, 'Yeah.'

Hermione nodded. She pushed his feet off, intending to get up and change into her pyjamas, but he reached up with werewolf quickness and grabbed her arm. Not hard, but firm nonetheless. She paused, eyed him. 'What?'

He took one last hit off the wolfnip, his eyes glowing orange in the reflected light, before stubbing it out and Vanishing the remains. 'Stay,' he said, tugging her back down.

She went easily, and as she tumbled sideways against his body from the force of his pull. He wrapped his arm around her and then returned his attention to the telly. It was surprisingly comfortable. He smelled like Malfoy, a scent she'd come to associate quite heavily with _life_, since it was such a big part of hers. He was everywhere—at work, at home, at campaigns. She'd not spent a full moon night away from him in over five years.

She cosied into him. Draco paused on_ Never Mind the Buzzcocks _in time for Noel Fielding to make a particularly witty joke, and Hermione was startled into laughing. It jostled them, and somehow, his hand fell to her side. His long fingers settled on her waist, but his gaze was firmly locked on the television. She shivered. The light from her telly flickered against her walls, the sound a low hum of white noise. It felt strange and comforting and as if it would consume her entire life. It was a feeling she'd been feeling forever, or maybe it was just that this moment was going on forever. How long had that scene been on telly, she wondered? How long had Malfoy's fingers been on her, with only the thin fabric of her shirt between them? How long had she not noticed that it was unusual?

Draco flicked back to BBC One. East Enders was on. She didn't mind this time. Gooseflesh spread across her skin as his fingers continued sliding over it. Merlin, it felt good. It had been so long since anyone touched her with any degree of intimacy.

She squirmed against him and he noticed; for a second, his fingers paused. She felt him inhale slowly, deeply. There was a heavy pause. Then he resumed—this time more surely, his fingers dipping lower until they reached the hem of her shirt and then slipping underneath. Hermione gasped, and arched up into his touch. He shuddered, and it was then, as a melting glacier finally broke free and fell into the Arctic Ocean on BBC, that Hermione understood that something had just changed between them. If they went forward, there was no going back from this moment.

And she was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and a werewolf—which meant there weren't too many suitors lining up at her door. Ron had, in fact, been both her first and her last. And that was over six years ago. What was sex like with another person? Another best friend sort of person? Hermione calculated all the ways that it could go very wrong—and the few in which it could go right—with that strange, detached logic she used whenever emotions threatened to get involved.

She rather thought Draco to be quite open to sex in general with anyone and everyone, though she couldn't recall him going on more than one or two dates over the years. She suspected he suffered from the same stigma as she did: werewolves might be gaining acceptance among the population, but that didn't mean anyone was interested in copulating with them.

Although there was definitely a new fetish porn market cropping up around the theme. It rather grossed Hermione out, to be quite frank. They were people, not _dogs_. Alas, she was digressing, even within her own head.

_We can't go back from this_.

She decided to go forward instead. After all, where else would she find someone interested in seeing her in the altogether? The way the tabloids had it, she was practically a bearded lady beneath her robes.

Hermione pulled herself up on one hand, staring down at him. Malfoy looked tired, and sombre—and strangely intense. She didn't need lights on to see the way his eyes focused only on her. He stared at her unguardedly, and it took her breath away. She leaned down, and, quite without thinking, slid her lips against his, once.

His arms came up immediately, pulling her flush against his chest, and Hermione went willingly, with only a little squeak of surprise as she fell. He laughed softly against her mouth and she felt his warm breath against her lips. She froze at the feel of his hands on her back, his fingertips ghosting along the skin of her spine before they came 'round to grip her. She pressed her hips down, aching for more contact, and felt his desire for her pressing back. She gasped.

'Fuck, Hermione,' he said, arching up.

His neck was thrown back and she took the opportunity to bend down and kiss the exposed skin. His shuddering convinced her to do it again, and then, perhaps, lick a trail from his jaw to his collarbone. This was proving to be interesting indeed. Hermione could've kicked herself: she'd never before realised how many opportunities sex with another werewolf would present. The research value alone...

Draco arched into her again, his erection rubbing deliciously against her. She moaned. Perhaps there were benefits beyond having a new experience. Hermione turned her brain firmly off.

-x-

Draco was imagining things. That was the only reason he'd not self-combusted by now. Or at least given himself away as being entirely more invested in this moment than he was trying to let on. Granger's eyes were heavy-lidded, all pupil, and she was rutting against him as if she did it every day. She threw her head back, panting, and he thought, _Merlin, so fucking beautiful_.

Was this really happening? After seven years? He thought his heart might explode from the rush of _want _and _feeling_.

Draco could not restrain himself. He was only a man—usually. He slid his hand from her back around to the front, and toyed with the buttons along the front of her trousers. She didn't seem overly concerned, so he popped the first one open. Still no refusal. He deftly undid the other three buttons and slipped his hand inside her knickers, letting his fingers comb through the curls there, until he found her folds. He hesitated, looked up, searching for her eyes.

She was fully aware of him now, no longer lost in the heat of the moment, though her eyes were indeed quite heated themselves. She stared down at him, gaze intent, confident. Slowly, purposefully, she pushed her hips forward over his lap, grazing his erection and sending a surge of pleasure through him. It made his fingers slide along the edges of her folds, and he could've come just from the hot slickness he found there. He shut his eyes tightly, unable to look at her without losing himself.

He took several rasping breaths, attempting to steady himself. At some point, he noticed that his entire body was shaking from adrenaline and seven years worth of unresolved love and desire. But not anymore. Now, she wanted him in return. Now, she would be his.

All he had to do was take her.

Draco smiled up at Hermione, letting some of his many walls fall, exposing _seven years_ of himself to her. She looked briefly startled, before it was replaced by thoughtfulness, a look more commonplace for her. He wasted no time pressing his fingertips against her opening, exploring her for the first time.

She gasped, throwing her head back. He could see her chest moving with her breath beneath her shirt, and in that moment, nothing would suffice but her skin. He set to work on the buttons of her blouse, slipping them from their holes. When he reached the top, her hands came up to join his. They settled atop his own and slowly, together, they pushed her shirt to her shoulders, and then down her arms.

She discarded it on the floor, then reached up with one hand, and unsnapped her bra. Her shoulders curled forwards as she slid the straps off, and then she was bare before him, sitting astride his lap and seemingly waiting for some reaction.

'Not furry all over,' she said, wryly.

Draco smirked at her, though it wasn't easy when all he could think was a fugue of "Oh my god, oh my god."

Her flushed skin reached down her breasts, all the way to her dark nipples. They were hard and he really had no idea if it was from arousal or room temperature, but he hoped to Merlin it at least had a little to do with him. He could feel himself leaking through his trousers as it was, and _Merlin _it had been so long since a woman had even looked twice at him after learning of his disease.

Somehow, she'd managed to unbutton his shirt, and now she was sliding down his body to do the same with his trousers without him even noticing. Everything was going so quickly. He took hold of her arms, slowing her progress with getting his trousers down. She looked up at him, and he pushed himself into a sitting position.

He just needed this to last. It might be the only time.

The lights from her telly flashed across her face, but he hated the distraction, so he fumbled for the remote control and turned off. It left the room empty and hollow, with only the penetrating sounds of their pulses and heartbeats and all the people leaving the pub two streets over. He wanted to be human for this, so he'd only hear _her_, but _werewolf_ was her, and it wouldn't be real without the unrelenting noise of extrasensory hearing in the background.

He pushed her back to bend over her, easing her trousers down her legs. Her toes curled as he removed them. _He _wanted to undress her; he could at least control _that_, and she seemed okay with the change—somehow she could always read him. Draco slid his hands up her legs to the firm flesh of her thighs. There was her bite scar, savage and somehow beautiful on her thigh.

She shuddered, drawing her knees up, and he fell between them, kissing the long line of her clavicle as he steadied himself with the metronome of her pulse. Every time it sped up, every time he touched her in a way she especially liked, it sent a rush of love and pleasure through his own body.

He kissed her all over, but kept returning to her mouth. He'd spent hours in their lab, mindlessly stirring potion after potion as he thought of what her kiss would be like, what she'd feel like beneath his hands. Now that he knew the rhythm of her heartbeat better than his own name. He'd never forget it from this day forward. He could count potion stirs by it; he could set his watch by it.

He kissed down between her breasts, over the firm expanse of her stomach, to the soft lace of her knickers. Draco hooked his fingers over the edges and she lifted her hips so he could slide them down her thighs. She watched him fiercely, unblinking, drawing her knees up further so he could flick them off her feet and toss them somewhere towards the kitchen.

Merlin help him—that look would stay with him forever. He bent his head, kissing along her hipbones and thighs, running his nose over the curls between them. Her legs shivered, and he knew she wanted him as much as he did in that moment.

'Let me,' he said.

She nodded, and he needed no further encouragement. He dipped his head and licked along her slit, and she moaned so loudly it nearly blocked out the sound of the pub. Draco shuddered, and repeated the action. He propped himself up on one elbow and rubbed his fingers over her opening as he lapped at her clit. She was panting now, and so very wet. He slid one finger in, and nearly died at the feeling of her clenching around it.

'Draco,' she said around a moan.

Draco groaned, burying his face against her. Merlin, she tasted so good, like she was made for him. He didn't think he'd ever get enough of this. He pushed another finger inside and fucked her slowly, searching for the spot that would make the sound of her heartbeat triple in time. When he found it, Hermione's back arched up, and she moaned loudly.

Draco grinned smugly against her, circling his tongue around her clit and thrusting his fingers again and again until she was begging him. He licked her slowly, torturously slowly, wanting to keep her on edge as long as he could. She was so responsive that he almost thought he might come himself, just from the sound of her whimpers. He underestimated her arousal, however, and she came hard around his fingers, growling his name. Draco stared at her in fascination as she fell apart, a little disappointed in himself for not being able to keep her on edge like he'd planned, and entirely pleased with himself for being able to make her come at all. Well, he'd just have to practise more. Draco continued moving his fingers slowly within her until her panting evened out, and she squeezed her legs together, trying to end the overstimulation.

He crawled up her body, his face covered in the scent of her. She blinked at him several times. He couldn't stop smiling like an idiot. With another growl, she grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down for a searing kiss. He moaned in surprise and melted against her sweat-slick body, kissing her fiercely. She pushed her hips up, and he couldn't help rutting up against the heated spot between her legs. He was so hard and aching for her, and he'd thought of this very thing every day as long as he could remember.

'Malfoy,' she panted, pulling away. 'Draco. _Merlin_.'

He grinned lopsidedly. 'I'll respond to any of those.'

She pushed her hips up against his in retaliation, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He was pretty sure he whimpered, too, but hoped that Granger would be kind enough to never mention it.

'Do you have any other hidden talents?'

Merlin, he hoped so. Because a few drunken tumbles with Astoria Greengrass in seventh year did not a sex-god make. Still, he'd always been a fast learner. And there was the lycanthropy on his side—for once.

He pushed his pants down his thighs, keeping his eyes on her face, watching for any sign of disinterest or hesitance. There wasn't any. When he had them all the way off and tossed somewhere near her own, she looked down, and he was gratified to see her eyes widen a bit—that was before the very Granger look of academic curiosity overtook, and she reached out to take hold of him without the slightest hesitation.

Draco very nearly came all over himself. Fortunately, he was able to bring up an image of Weasley's face before he embarrassed himself. Then by the time he'd got himself under control, Hermione was pushing his back against the seat back and climbing into his lap. She kissed him ferociously, and his arms came up automatically, pulling her tight against him. Her breasts pressed against his chest and he felt the heat of her as she hovered over his prick.

She positioned herself over him and slid down in one smooth motion. Draco's fingers clenched at her waist, surely painfully given his strength, but she didn't complain. They moaned in sync. If he was already this far gone, he had no idea how he'd make it through. She began to move. He grabbed onto her bum, not sure if he wanted to help her along or slow her down before this was all over early.

Granger's arms came around his shoulders, using them as leverage to lift herself up. _Fuck_, he thought. He couldn't look away from her face, couldn't stop his hands moving all over her body. Draco reached between them, rubbed his fingers over her clit, and she tossed her head back, her wild hair flying, and gasped. He shut his eyes tightly, knowing the view would send him over the edge. He rubbed her faster, and her hips moved erratically. She seized up, moaning, her hips bucking. Draco could feel every muscle of her clenching around him.

Hermione growled, surged forward and grabbed his face, kissing him deeply. Her tongue slid into his mouth and she moaned into the kiss, and it was more than he could take. He came hard, yelling her name muffled against her mouth. She kissed him through it, rode him slowly as he came down.

Draco pulled her against him. She fell limp against his chest, breathing hotly against his neck. With orgasm, the last effects of desperate arousal had faded away, leaving him raw and vulnerable to rational thought. He swallowed.

Merlin help him, Draco thought. He'd never recover from this.

Hermione sighed happily. He squeezed her tighter. Well, that was his heart set up for breaking. Bugger it all.


	4. The Relentless Struggle Between Good & M

**Today (31 December) is my birthday, so if you're feeling inclined, reviews make great presents. :)**

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**Chapter 04: The Relentless Struggle Between Good & Muggle**

She'd promised Harry and Luna she'd watch Portentia today, Hermione remembered quite suddenly. She jerked up, already half out of the bed and into the shower before she scented the extra occupant in her bedroom. Slowly, Hermione turned back to the bed.

Malfoy stared back at her, eyes alert despite the early time and their late night.

_Their late night._

Everything came back to her in a rush, and she flushed from head to toe. Heavens, she was naked. _Had they really_—?

_Yes_, she remembered. _Yes, they had_. And it had been..._well_, rather good, actually. She bit her lip to keep from smirking, or worse—grinning—at the memory.

'Morning, Draco,' she said with what she hoped was a steady voice. It was a struggle not to try to cover herself, but Malfoys were always looking for weaknesses, and he'd be more likely to tease her if she seemed uncomfortable.

He quirked a single blond eyebrow. His hair was so mussed and just-shagged that it destroyed the effect. The laugh Hermione had been trying to avoid came out in full force. Merlin, she'd seen his hair mussed up a hundred times before, but never after they'd _shagged_. She slapped a hand over her mouth, but it was no use: her wide eyes gave away her nervousness, and she'd have to admit that Draco won this round.

'Morning, Hermione,' he said, just as gravely. There was a moment of weird silence. He started to pull himself up from the bed, and in doing so lost the cover of her bed sheets. 'Shall I just go, then?'

Hermione squeaked. He had a morning erection. _Nocturnal penile tumescence,_ she thought, as academically as she could. He noticed her gaze and reached for the sheet again, but she really couldn't have that at all. No, if she was going to be awkward, then so was he. She came 'round the bed and tugged at the sheet until he let it fall away.

Seeing him here in the morning light, scenting his second-day hair and their sex all over him was doing irrational things to her body. Merlin, but he was fit. She felt hot and decidedly bothered.

'Let's not be awkward,' she said suddenly. 'It doesn't have to be awkward, does it? We've been friends so long, you know, and we're together all the time—Merlin I haven't even changed without you in years—and, well, I suppose it's only natural for sexual attraction to develop over time when two people are otherwise compatible and physically agreeable to the other party, and plenty of people have sex with their friends and don't let it ruin things between them, like, well, like me and R—'

'I'm going to stop you there,' Draco said quickly.

She chanced a look at his face. He was smiling wryly. 'I don't want things to be awkward between us,' she said again.

He was giving her that intense look again, the one she only saw when he was working on a new lycanthropy-related potion. 'What _do_ you want then?'

Her eyes slid downwards again, quite without her permission. _Heavens_. She swallowed again. _I have no idea_, she thought. 'I think I want to perform fellatio on you.'

Draco burst out laughing. Hermione went hot all over, and turned to run for the bathroom. A strong hand caught her bicep and tugged her back. She fell against his chest, and his arms came around to hold her in place. She felt his erection against her bum and barely refrained from wiggling against it.

'Let me go,' she said instead.

'I think not,' said Malfoy, still chuckling. 'I'd like to hear more about this fellatio and you performing it.'

'You're mocking me.'

'Yes,' he said, his hand rubbing up and down her belly. 'But I like your overly-academic defence mechanisms. It's...'

'Don't say cute,' Hermione warned.

He scoffed. 'I've never said the word in my life. I certainly won't start now. It's...pleasing to me,' he decided.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but did turn around in his arms to look up at him. She ran her fingers over his chest, and attempted a sultry look. 'Shall I, then?'

He waved a hand magnanimously. 'Please.'

She sunk to her knees. Harry and Luna could wait. There were academic endeavours to explore—things like, what did Draco taste like, and would it still be good in the morning, and would Draco ever be interested in making this a more...permanent thing?

-x-

'Alice Dumbledore,' Harry said, exasperated. He lowered his voice, craning his neck to look out into the hallway of a very strangely decorated Grimmauld Place, beyond which Luna was getting Portentia ready for an outing with Auntie Hermione. 'Alice. Fucking. Dumbledore.'

'Oh, honestly, Harry,' said Hermione. 'It's just a name. If that's what Luna wants to name it, then let her name it that. She had your baby; you give her whatever she wants.'

'I have,' said Harry. 'That's why we have a Kneazle kitten now instead of a Crup puppy. A Kneazle kitten named Alice Dumbledore.'

The Kneazle in question hopped up onto the kitchen table, nosing at Hermione's bacon. She batted it away, and Alice Dumbledore caught a whiff of her scent. She meowed warningly, and then used Hermione's distraction to steal the bacon. Hermione, now without breakfast, was at least grateful Luna'd had the foresight to get a Kneazle instead of a normal cat. Werewolves and cats didn't mix so well.

Draco snorted. 'Can you imagine having to yell for it when it gets out of the house?'

Harry groaned. He levitated the skillet to the sink and set a washing spell going. 'That's my point. No self-respecting Auror has a kitten named Alice Dumbledore.'

'She's white,' Luna said, coming in with Portentia on her hip. 'Albus means white.'

Harry threw his head back, sighing in exasperation. 'But what does _Alice_ mean?' he asked, with the air of a man who'd asked the same question a thousand times before. 'Since she's not, in fact, named Albus.'

'It means noble,' said Luna. 'Like a Gryffindor.'

Harry narrowed his eyes, although he didn't look nearly as fierce as Draco did when he did it. Hermione and Draco shifted uncomfortably as the smell of arousal filled the air. Harry was so weird. 'We are not done with this conversation, dear.'

Luna pecked him on the cheek as she passed. 'I know, love. I do enjoy having conversations with you about things that have already happened in the past.' She passed Portentia to Hermione. 'Thank you so much for taking Ten today, Hermione. And you as well, Draco. I didn't expect to get two babysitters. This is a lovely surprise.'

'Yeah, about that,' said Harry, now narrowing his eyes suspiciously in their direction. Hermione shrank back, attempting to melt through the floor, or, failing that, to wandlessly Disillusion herself. 'It's a bit early for you, Malfoy. Rarely see you before noon at the weekend.'

Draco shrugged, sipping his tea. 'I was feeling roused.'

'Roused,' Harry repeated.

'It's a werewolf thing,' Hermione said quickly.

Harry didn't look like he was going to let it go, but the Floo roared to life and Ron's voice called out urgently. He rushed off to answer it. Portentia took that moment to spill Hermione's tea all over her, and the Kneazle stole the last of Draco's bacon. In the clusterfuck that followed, the two of them plus Portentia managed to escape the Potter household without further interrogation.

Although not without Hermione overhearing Ron say "werewolf" twice in the Floo. She pursed her lips and refused to worry. She had an outing with her goddaughter planned. And she'd had two rather nice shags in as many days. Werewolf or not, things were looking pretty good to her at the moment.

'I've just got to do a quick interview with that vampire who's opening the modern art gallery and then pop into the office to pick up this month's galleys. I'll pick her up at three,' Luna called to them as they were stepping outside to Apparate. The door shut behind her, leaving the three of them alone on the Potters' front steps.

Hermione was suddenly feeling nervous again, which was ridiculous. Draco was one of her very best friends, right up there with Harry and Ron. So they'd had sex. So they'd had sex twice, actually. It didn't mean she suddenly had to feel like he was undressing her with his eyes.

Although…She glanced at him again. Although, he might actually have been doing that. She shifted Portentia on her hip. 'It occurred to me that I didn't tell you what I had planned when I roped you into coming with today. We're going to go to Diagon to see the holiday lights.'

Malfoys didn't celebrate Christmas or any other spirit-of-giving holidays. Hermione suspected it was because they had too much stuff to warrant buying presents for one another. It made him easy to buy for (nothing) but difficult to decide how to approach with holiday-related activities like looking at fairy lights.

He shrugged. 'Alright.'

She gave him a brilliant smile, relieved. 'Wonderful. Ready then?'

He took her free hand, and with a step and a twist, she Apparated them to Diagon.

-x-

Diagon Alley was lovely in December, Hermione thought. The Diagon Alley Shop Owners Association put up fairy lights, garlands, and sparkling charms all over the neighbourhood. Even better, all the shops competed for the best window display, and it was always fun to see how creative they got. London didn't get much snow, but the residents sometimes even came together to put up a weather charm over the main street so that snow flurries would constantly fall, but never pile up into dirty slush. There was one going now, and Hermione couldn't help but sigh happily at the scene.

She dropped Draco's hand to set Portentia on the ground and looked around, trying to decide which way to go first. Portentia decided for her, as it turned out.

'I wanna see Uncle George's window.' She swiped irritably at her nose, where a number of charmed snowflakes were gathering, and turned beseeching eyes upon Hermione and Draco.

Hermione bit her lip. George's displays often featured a number of questionable accents, but Portentia was still only four, so with any luck she wouldn't even notice them.

'Alright,' said Hermione. 'After you.'

Portentia grabbed her hand and took off, weaving expertly through the crowd with Hermione and Draco following behind. They were well-known as werewolves, having been outed by the _Daily Prophet_ the very morning after the final battle, and they got a few sneers by passing wizards, but had seven years' experience in ignoring that sort of thing. It also helped that Hermione and Ron were war heroes—many in the wizarding world had a hard time reconciling "war heroes" and "dangerous beasts", so they pretended their inconvenient lycanthropy didn't exist.

'Are your parents going to Greece again for the twenty-fifth?' asked Hermione. She was very aware that they were Not Talking About the night before, and wondered how long the two of them could keep it up.

Draco shrugged while returning a sneer to a frumpy witch giving them a rude stare. 'Probably not after that report Mum got yesterday. She'll be hard at work with damage control through the New Year. Even the blasted gala will be a job for her.'

They passed through a beautifully intricate garland arch, replete with dancing fairies and peppermint humbug-shaped decorations. Hermione quirked a grin. 'It's apparent where your work ethic comes from, Malfoy.'

He glanced at her sideways. 'I've really no idea what my mother would do if she didn't have a thousand different projects going at once. She's always been that way.'

'And your father seems to like it.'

Draco smirked. 'He hates dealing with the estate management; it gives her something to do when she's bored. She doesn't like choosing entertainment for parties; he...apparently doesn't realise he likes Muggle music. They have a very symbiotic relationship.'

Hermione laughed. 'Kind of like us. I keep your mother off your back about supporting the werewolf campaigns, and you keep Harry and Ron entertained when I'm exhausted.'

He looked at her sharply, and she realised too late what she'd implied by her statement. She opened her mouth, not sure if she wanted to say she meant nothing by it or confirm that she did. Portentia came to an abrupt stop in front of George's shop, and she was saved from doing either.

'Look!'

They did. Hermione winced. There were fake house elves dressed as St. Nicholas' elves in the WWW window. And one house elf was getting a spanking for being naughty. It had a pile of wheezes in front of it. The banner read: _Being on the Naughty List is More Fun! Buy Wheezes for Your Loved Ones This Christmas!_

'It's not subtle,' Draco offered, head tilted sideways.

'No,' Hermione agreed.

'I want to be an elf!' said Portentia. 'Mummy says I can only be an elf if I'm good, but these elves have been bad, and they're still elves.'

Hermione's face scrunched in a universal expression of "what the actual fuck?". She did not say this, however. What she said was, 'That's lovely, Ten. Do you want to look at the display at the Build-a-Bugbear Factory?'

'No, I like this one.'

'There are more to see,' Hermione said.

'This one's best.' Portentia was firm on this. 'Daddy says Mummy looks like an elf.'

Hermione wondered, not for the first time, if Harry had gone a bit mad after the final battle. She supposed he had to regularly pass a mental stability test to remain on the Auror force, and yet...

Anyway.

It was then that an owl landed on her shoulder, talons digging into the soft skin there as it balanced. It held out its foot, thrusting a letter in her face. The seal on the letter had the initials _NBM_.

'Shi—zzle,' Hermione said, correcting herself before little ears could pick up a new word. Portentia was rather too canny for Hermione's liking sometimes. 'It's from Narcissa.'

Draco frowned. 'What does my mother want with you now? You just saw her yesterday.'

Hermione passed Ten's hand to him to hold onto and took the letter. She skimmed it quickly, her frown growing. She paled. 'That article yesterday? It's going to look like a love letter after today.'

'Auntie Hermy!' Portentia said, reaching out her hands. 'Please!'

They swapped. Hermione picked Portentia up and hugged her close, feeling anxious as she hadn't felt in years. Draco read through the letter once, twice, and folded it up with sharp, jerky movements. Draco's mouth was pressed into a firm line. He looked all around, as if there was an answer in the holiday crowds, or maybe someone would jump out and tell them it was all a big joke.

People jostled them from all directions. Hermione chewed her lip, feeling the distinct urge to say words she reserved for potions explosions, but unable to do so in front of Harry's child. She wanted to scream. For two years, things had been going well. Two whole years. And now everything was going to shit all at once.

Draco exhaled in a rush. Wordlessly, he took Hermione's free hand and Apparated the three of them to the front steps of Malfoy Manor. The grounds were stark and silent, as if the jubilant crowds in Diagon were merely a dream. Maybe they had been.

Hermione took a deep breath. She was going to need it after today.

Because all those victimless werewolf incidents now had victims. Lots of them.

-x-

Hermione handled his mother better than he did, Draco thought with some amount of irritation. Although, maybe the irritation stemmed from his father playing his Arctic Kneazles record too loudly only a few doors down. Or maybe he was just putting off thinking about the contents of his mother's letter.

Anyway, Draco liked to watch her at it. It was easy to forget himself, to forget that whatever-last-night-was might have only been a one-night stand in Hermione's eyes, and as long as they didn't get _awkward_, they could carry on just as they had before.

Which was torture for Draco, really, but he was a werewolf, and therefore used to that sort of thing on the monthly, at least.

There was a certain amount of give and take between his mum and Granger, but unlike his father—and, really, anyone else—Hermione exacted equal payment for every demand she gave up to Narcissa. Hermione was currently yelling at his mother in French, most likely because she was not using entirely child-friendly words, and little Potter was in the room playing with some of Draco's old toys. Draco shifted in his chair, attempting to subtly adjust himself before two overly observant women. Merlin, who knew he'd one day find himself so bloody aroused by such a dominant woman?

He'd let her be _his _Alpha any day…

_Good heavens, that's taking it a bit far,_ he thought to himself. He'd let her be Alpha _with_ him any day. As she already was. _Don't get weird, Draco,_ he told himself.

Granger leaned forward, eyes narrowed, as she discussed the fallout with his mother. _Merlin, that fierce gaze_. She was like a wolf even when she was human. Draco could smell her anger and anxiety. He adjusted himself again. Fortunately, they were too absorbed in retaining PR control to give him and his inconvenient halfie much notice.

'How could this happen?' Hermione said, in impeccable French. 'How could twenty people go missing for a fortnight and the Auror office is only finding out about it now, _two weeks _after the last full moon?'

Narcissa sipped a cup of tea recently provided by their head house elf, Bertram. 'Hermione darling, you seem to be under the misapprehension that I am your secretary.'

Hermione flopped back in her chair. 'How did you come by this information anyway?'

'Not your secretary,' Narcissa repeated, slipping her reading glasses on and flipping through a stack of parchments.

Draco loved a good political scandal as much as the next aristocrat, but the lycanthropy fight hit too close to home for him to play the game as objectively as Hermione and his mother did. He helped where he could, but had long since realised that it was better to leave them to it. The bite, after all, had only worsened his temper. And that was no good for their platform when he was having to field questions from discourteous, poorly-clothed, bourgeois reporters. And also, he hated the way people looked at him—he was both ex-Death Eater _and_ werewolf. There was no "war hero" label to offset their disgust for him, so he was happy to remain in the wings while Hermione gave brilliant, stirring speeches and argued their rights before the Wizengamot.

Hermione pushed her wild hair behind her ear with one hand and turned to glare at him, as if he had the answers to dealing with his mother. He shrugged, and it seemed to calm her a little. She gave him a small, tired smile. 'What should we do, Draco?' she asked.

'Kill them before the news gets out and then blackmail all the Aurors into falsifying the report.'

His mother gave him a look. 'Draco.'

He shrugged. 'It's what Father would've done.'

Hermione grimaced, and he guiltily realised he'd probably gone too far. Portentia looked at him solemnly. He probably should've said the part about murder and blackmail in a language an Auror's daughter didn't understand, too.

'We aren't interested in Lucius' solutions at this point in time,' Narcissa said, rather politically, if Draco was asked. She'd put up with a great deal of shit from his father over the years and Lucius knew it, which was the only reason he didn't put up more of a fight for dominance in the Manor any longer. That and the fact that Narcissa was better at Arithmancy and therefore managed the estate well enough without his input.

'Fine,' he said. 'Have they taken the werewolves into custody—protective or otherwise?'

'No,' said Narcissa. 'The Ministry just received the communiqué this morning; they're still looking for the werewolves.'

This was getting very complicated. And strange. 'Then I suggest we find them and get them on our side before the Auror force does.'

Hermione bit her lip, considering. 'What other information do we have?'

'Very little,' Narcissa admitted. 'My sources have traced the owl's origin to Scotland. The writer claimed that he or she had created twenty werewolves.'

'For what purpose?' Draco couldn't help asking.

Narcissa shook her head. 'There was no explanation given—but we can all imagine the result it will have. At this point, the perpetrator's motive is unimportant to us; we must now handle the fallout of this and the Dutch article.'

She sighed, rubbing her temples, and Draco's stomach did a little flip. He'd never seen his mother so out of sorts. Well, not since His Lordship was in residence, anyway.

'Okay,' said Hermione. 'I'll see what I can get out of Harry and Ron. That is, if they haven't been pulled off the case because of conflict of interest.'

Hermione stood up again to pace back and forth as she and Narcissa returned to rapid-fire French brainstorming, neatly sidestepping little Potter and her building blocks. She was calmer now, but Draco could still smell the residual anger rolling off her in waves of heady pheromones. And bugger, but Draco _wanted_. He wanted her fully and wholly and without the excuse of a disappointment at the lab between them.

Narcissa's office door opened after a quick knock, and his father stuck his head in. He scanned the scene before him, quickly noting Hermione and Narcissa's intense discussion, the stacks of newspapers, blackmail folders, background information on various Ministry personnel, and Potter's daughter playing with Draco's old snap-and-build blocks on the floor. He then turned to Draco and lifted one eyebrow.

Draco did not need further incentive. He stood, holding out his hand for little Potter. 'Come on then, Potterette,' he said. 'Bring your blocks and we'll go play somewhere more fun.'

Neither of the women even noticed him leaving; such was life. Portentia did collect her things and take his hand, and they followed Lucius out of Narcissa's very modern office and down the hall into Lucius's more traditional one. Where his mother's office was all light grey walls, black leather furniture, and—Draco shuddered—silver accents everywhere, his father's was warm wood and cosy leather. And it had scotch.

'Shall I assume it understood between us that babysitting Potters is beneath Malfoys?' his father asked, as he summoned an elf to bring Potterette a warm pumpkin juice and a plate of choco bikkies. The Arctic Kneazles were still playing in the background, more softly now at least.

'Thank you, Mr Mawfoy,' Portentia said around a biscuit. 'Daddy doesn't let me have choco bikkies before dinner, but Mummy says his head's infested.' She then returned to ignoring them in favour of her blocks.

Lucius smirked.

Draco shrugged and accepted the scotch, taking a seat on the well-worn leather couch opposite the fire. His mother didn't have a fireplace in her office. She liked to keep visitors cold and uncomfortable so they'd be more likely to acquiesce to her demands just to escape her frigid office.

'Probably for the best,' Draco agreed.

The music changed, and Draco was certain the gramophone was now playing Kate Bush. He knew her only because Granger had her albums, and she looked almost exactly like her—and Hermione's voice got just as high-pitched when she was especially hacked-off. He was not convinced, however, that his father realised she was a Muggle.

'Who's that playing?' he asked, to be certain.

'Kate Banshee,' said Lucius. 'A witch from Welling. Your mother bought me the record for my fiftieth. Delightful lyrical coloratura soprano. I've no idea why she isn't more popular.'

_Riiiight_, Draco thought. It would be a cold day before he was the one to clue his father in on the fact that all these "wizarding" musicians' records Narcissa bought for him were actually Muggles, or, at best, wizards who happily performed in the Muggle world.

'Nice,' he said instead.

Lucius smiled and nodded. He bent forward, making a fair attempt at playing with little Potter for a moment before he straightened up again and regarded Draco over the rim of his scotch glass. 'Your mother refuses to listen to reason about the werewolf gala.'

Draco grimaced. _Here we go again_. 'Yes, unfortunately. A disaster waiting to happen.'

His father sighed. 'I am not the only sane person in this family, I see. Thank Merlin for small miracles.'

'We're going anyway,' Draco added. 'Hermione and I.'

Lucius pulled a face he certainly would not have had he been in the company of anyone but his immediate family. 'Bollocks. Draco, I had hoped you would talk your mother around. I really cannot afford to have Aurors on the grounds again. I've only just had the parquet floors in the ballroom refinished after the last time. Do they not take their boots off for any occasion? One wonders if they're able to even see to their wives without—' He broke off abruptly, remembering Portentia. Draco smirked.

'What exactly is going on between you and Ms Granger?' his father asked then. 'I've long since resigned myself to having her in my home, but of late I get the unsettling feeling that she is more than your colleague and your mother's campaign manager.'

Draco's stomach flipped. As of last night, he had no idea what was going on between them himself. He certainly hoped it was the beginning of something more...permanent. However, it was difficult to tell with Hermione. She was rather flighty when it came to non-academic affairs. He'd have to prod her along, Draco suspected.

And prod her along he would.

'She's my friend,' he said.

Lucius sat back against the couch, elegantly crossing one ankle over his knee. 'I suspect that both of you being werewolves lends a certain camaraderie to a relationship, one that would certainly not exist otherwise.'

Well, Lucius could think that if he wanted to, but the truth was Draco'd thought Granger fit ever since she slapped him in third year, and becoming friends with her after the bite had only turned his attraction into something worse—love.

'Whatever the reason,' said Draco, neatly sidestepping, 'she's here to stay. You might as well make friends with her now before Mother decides to adopt her.'

'Do you not see enough of her at the full moon?' Lucius asked. He waved a hand about, a vague gesture that could've meant anything from "as if" to "fuck this blasted fly". 'And of course at work.'

Draco shrugged, and sipped his scotch. 'We get along well, both in and out of work.'

'I cannot imagine wanting to spend so much time with one person,' said Lucius. 'I'm certain your mother would disembowel me if we had to share an office space. In fact, it occurs to me that I'm not entirely certain what you and Ms Granger do for the Ministry?' Lucius prodded.

'Consulting,' said Draco. 'On potions analysis.'

'Ah,' said Lucius, but he was frowning, as if he couldn't recall ever seeing any potions consultants at the Ministry before. He hadn't. They didn't exist. Draco went through this same conversation with his family every few years whenever they remembered that he and Hermione had jobs, but that they weren't sure what those jobs were.

'My daddy works for the Ministry,' Portentia offered, looking up at them with big, grey, Lovegood-esque eyes.

They stared down at her. She blinked, and returned the stare. Lucius looked away first. 'How delightful, my dear,' he said. She nodded and returned to her blocks.

'Well, at any rate,' Lucius continued, remembering his new favourite topic, 'this entire thing is madness. You must convince your mother to cancel this gala, especially after the news today.'

Draco blinked at the sudden return to their old topic. That was most unlike his father; he was usually much subtler. The party must really be worrying him. Instead he said, 'Have you ever known me to be able to convince Mother of anything? Anything at all?'

Lucius frowned, then stood to prod at the logs in the hearth with the poker. He regarded the family portrait above the mantelpiece, staring balefully back at Narcissa, who was smirking down at him.

'I suppose not,' he admitted. 'And she has been less inclined to entertain my...fancies after the business with our houseguest.' By which he meant the Dark Lord, rest his seven souls (in misery).

'You did rather bugger that one up,' Draco said, eyebrows raised. Lucius turned to sneer at him over his shoulder, and poked at the fire one last time before returning to his seat.

'When you have a wife and children, you are free to make your own mistakes, Draco,' Lucius said.

Draco smirked. Point for him. He felt a little daring now. Daring enough to rile Lucius up a bit. 'Even if they're half-bloods?'

His father sucked in a startled breath. 'Draco, you can't be serious.'

'And if I am?'

Lucius' eyes narrowed. 'Are we talking a half-blood wife and acceptably-pureblood children, or a mu—muggleborn wife and half-blood children?'

Draco shrugged. 'Who knows? Could be either, really. The political climate is really very well suited for that sort of thing now. Imagine the social capital Malfoys could gain by allying with a well-liked muggleborn?'

'Draco, if you're suggesting an arranged marriage between yourself and Ms Granger, I really must insist that you consider Astoria Greengrass instead. Her family was distinctly neutral during the scuffle and would be social capital enough.'

'I'd rather marry for love,' Draco said.

Lucius seemed relieved. Draco held back a smirk.

'Good,' said his father. Then, again: 'Good.' He gave a little shudder. 'Imagine having to adjust all the wards to make the Manor safe for Muggle in-laws at holidays. I simply could not bear it. I'm entirely too old for that kind of thing. Tolerance is something I will leave for the young. I've done my part by consenting not to kill them.'

Draco had never even met the Grangers, but it brought up interesting ideas. He wondered what they were like. He always Disapparated as soon as Hermione's parents yelled through the Floo, having no desire whatsoever to make small talk about automobiles and electricity, or whatever it was Muggles talked about when they had nothing in common with other people. But for this, it might be worth it. Maybe he could ask them to recommend more Muggle musicians for his father.

'Very big of you, Father,' Draco said.

'I rather thought so,' Lucius agreed. Then, 'If your mother is determined to see this ridiculous farce through to the bitter end, which it does appear she is, then it falls to you and me, my son, to ensure that none of _us _ends up in Azkaban for it.'

'How do you suggest we do such a thing?' Draco asked, one eyebrow raised. 'Potter and Weasley are coming, so at least we'll have two witnesses on our side. That's really all we can hope for.'

Lucius grimaced, as if physically pained by the threat of having a Potter and a Weasley in the Manor again. It was, Draco suspected, more agonising than having Hermione there on a semi-regular basis.

Fortunately, there was a knock at the door before an elf led Hermione in. She had a stack of folders hovering behind her and a harassed look on her face. She caught sight of Portentia and sighed in relief.

'There you are, darling,' she said, crouching down to help Portentia collect the snap-and-build blocks. Then, absently, 'Hello, Mr Malfoy.'

'Ms Granger.'

'You didn't even notice me taking her out?' Draco said.

She exhaled heavily. 'Goodness, Draco, don't tease me so. You knew Narcissa and I were distracted. This is _serious_.'

'I know,' he said. She looked up from little Potter and gave him a grateful smile. And maybe it was just him, but he thought there was something deeper in it this time, something secret and seductive, just for him. He couldn't help smiling back.

She settled Portentia on her hip, even though the child was entirely too heavy for that now, and set her blocks hovering with the files. 'Are we ready? Or are you staying here? We could grab lunch if you'd like. Ron said there's a new sushi place in Hoxton, and I need to buy a new pair of shoes for the gala—I'll let you pick them out.'

Sushi _and_ shopping? Merlin, it was like she was made for him.

He was out of his chair before she could even finish the last word. 'I'll come,' he said.

'Can I have shoes, too, Auntie Hermy?'

'Of course, darling,' said Hermione. 'What kind of shoes does your daddy like the least?'

Portentia considered this. 'The ones with sparkles 'cos he says they're barmy. But Mummy likes those, and me, too.'

'Then sparkle shoes we shall get for you, Ten. And be sure to wear them around Daddy all the time.'

Portentia beamed. Draco did, too. Hermione really was the perfect woman. Fuck, he was so in love. Too in love, in fact, to notice the considering look Lucius was giving him as they left.

-x-

'Daddy doesn't like sushi,' Portentia, who had no such problems herself, declared.

'Daddy is a bourgeois, cretan-ish philistine,' Draco offered.

Portentia nodded, as if she knew what this meant. With Lovegood for a mother, Draco suspected it quite possible that she did. 'He's infested with nargles.'

And there was the Lovegood half showing its arse again.

Hermione kicked Draco beneath the table. 'Don't listen to him, darling. All of those things are mutually exclusive.'

Somehow they managed to get through lunch without any further crises falling onto Hermione's head, but the day was young yet. Draco wouldn't be surprised if she got an owl telling them that some half-crazed witch had resurrected Fenrir Greyback in order to seduce him into impregnating her and continuing his line of batshit crazy, lyncathropic—

Actually, that was taking it a bit far. He was spending too much time around his father if he was starting to be so melodramatic in his own head. Draco's hand settled on Hermione's thigh beneath the table. She twitched, startled, and he saw her face heat up. He bit his lip to hold back the smirk that she certainly wouldn't appreciate.

Draco took care of the bill for lunch and they headed over to Hogsmeade for Granger's shoes, as Draco was unimpressed with the quality of those sold at Madam Malkin's and the cobbler in London was one of the shops who still didn't serve werewolves. Fortunately, Gladrags had no such compunctions, and while they specialised in clothing, not shoes, they at least were willing to sell to him.

'What the hell is with all this ecru?' Draco said, upon seeing their selection. 'Who wears ecru to a winter ball? For the love of Merlin, please bring the woman a fucking white stiletto.'

Hermione quite agreed, if her expression was anything to go by. The shop witch, on the other hand, seemed distressed. Little Potter blinked up at him with huge eyes. Draco froze, realising his mistake about two swear words too late.

Hermione scowled at him, then turned to Potterette to say, 'Oh, Ten, that's such a bad word. Proper witches don't say such naughty words, and you're a proper witch, aren't you?'

Portentia considered. 'Is Daddy a proper witch? He says those words all the time, 'specially when Uncle Ron's football team plays his. When he's winning, he says, _"Who the fuck are Man United, who the fu—_"'

'That,' Hermione quickly interrupted, 'is not a proper witch word, remember, Ten?'

She nodded. 'But then Uncle Ron gets really happy when Arsenal scores and he sings a song that goes like, _"Oh Manchester is full of_—"'

'That'll do, Portentia,' Draco said sternly. His stern voice was much better than Hermione's, so she actually listened.

Portentia frowned. 'So Daddy and Uncle Ron aren't proper then?'

'Good heavens, no,' Hermione said, absently, frowning at the newest selection of heels offered to her by the shop witch. 'But they're grownups, so they don't have to be proper.'

She frowned, seeming to realise the mistake she'd set herself up for when Portentia turned seventeen, then appeared to dismiss it, unimportant. Potter could deal with that when it happened. 'It occurs to me,' whispered Hermione to Draco, 'that it's a really good thing female werewolves can't carry to term. Imagine the horror of me as a mother.'

Draco rather thought it was saying something when Luna Lovegood turned out to be more Mum-ish than Hermione Granger, but he was smart enough not to say anything.

'I suppose,' he said. Then, to the shop witch: 'These are all ivory. Her dress is white. I want white shoes. Can you do that for me, or would you rather we convert our galleons to pounds and have a looksee at Harrod's?'

The shop witch narrowed her eyes at him, and pointedly tapped the latest shoe with her wand. It brightened into shiny white patent leather.

'All of Gladrags' "Festive and Fun" line is colour charm-able, sir. The spell will last for four hours before reverting to the original colour.'

'Ah, perfect,' he said, turning the shoe about for a better look. 'That wasn't so hard, was it? Granger, try this one on.' Little Potter had, in the meantime, selected her own pair of sparkle shoes for purchase, and Draco was impressed with the level of ostentation the Gladrags designers were able to fit onto one small shoe. Potter would be horrified by them, and so Draco was therefore in full support.

They were a bit late getting back to Hermione's flat, and by the time they'd set her bags down, the Floo was flaring to life. Lovegood's head poked through, looking as batty in flames as it did normally. 'Hello, Hermione, Draco,' she said. 'Is my monster about?'

'I'm heeeeeere,' Portentia sang, bounding in from the kitchen in her new shoes. She still had her winter hat on, and it was sinking down to cover her eyes. Draco adjusted it as she ran past, and then scowled at Granger when she noticed. 'I'm a monster!'

'A very scary one,' Luna agreed. 'Does this monster want to come home and have spaghetti frogs and marshmallows for tea?'

'Yes!'

Draco and Hermione shared a horrified look. Potterette was duly ushered through the fireplace, and Draco sank onto Hermione's couch, sighing in relief. His relaxation didn't last for long, though, as the Floo flared green _yet again_. Mother of Merlin, could he not get a break today? It was a _Saturday_, for Merlin's sake. He should not have been required to do so much _work_.

A woman who looked remarkably like Hermione was peering out at them, and he realised, with some horror, that it was her mother. Her Muggle mother. She'd want to talk about computers and laser pointers with him, and he was really not prepared for that, even after four years of Muggle Studies. And yet, the conversation with his father came to mind, and he was...intrigued. What exactly was a Muggle Granger like?

'Hello, sweetheart!'

Draco could hear the Exuberant Muggle in every syllable. Buggering hell, how did these people produce Granger?

'Hi Mum,' said Hermione, walking over to kneel in front of the hearth. She shot Draco a look over her shoulder as if she could tell what he was thinking. She probably could.

'You've a gentleman there with you?' Granger's mother asked.

Draco could imagine the grimace Hermione wore, even if he could only see the back of her bushy head right now. 'Yes, it's just Draco.'

_Just Draco, indeed!_ he thought.

'Oh, your werewolf? How lovely! You can bring him to Christmas dinner with you. I'd like to finally meet this young man.'

'I really don't think—'

'I'll come,' Draco said, before Hermione could make his excuses for him.

Christmas itself was a novel idea to him. Christmas with Muggles even more novel. But Christmas with _Granger's _Muggles? That was quite the interesting prospect indeed. Meeting her parents had to be a good idea if he was going to convince her to pursue this new thing between them. If he made the acquaintance of her parents, then he'd be that much closer to getting them to sign a betrothal contract with him, or whatever it was Muggles did when a strapping young wizard came to court their daughter.

Hermione turned back to him, an apologetic look on her face. 'You really don't have to.'

He scowled, feeling extremely wrong-footed. 'Maybe I want to. What else will I be doing that day? The Department stopped letting me come into work on the twenty-fifth three years ago. Now I just sit in your flat watching your telly.'

She rolled her eyes and returned to the Floo. 'All right, Mum. We'll be there next week. What time?'

'Three, sweetheart. Bring a red wine, if you don't mind.'

Mrs Granger departed the grate with a cheery wave in Draco's general direction. He would have waved back, but Hermione's head was mostly blocking the view, and he did not _wave_. Hermione warded the Floo from new callers, and came to came to sit down next to him, and he just knew they were about to talk about _it_.

She eyed him. 'So.'

Draco let his head fall back against the cushions. 'I swear to you Granger, if you've spent this whole day thinking of a way to politely say, "Last night—and this morning—was a mistake," I will throttle you.'

She looked doubtful. Her words proved it. 'I doubt you could, really...'

He glared at her from one eye. 'You were going to say it, weren't you?'

'I just don't want to ruin our friendship,' she said quietly.

He grimaced. What utter Gryffindorish nonsense. 'You know we can't go back to that.'

She looked away, and he could hear her heartbeat speeding up again. 'I know.'

'Then.' He paused, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. 'Then let's give it a try instead. We're good together.'

'Sex?' she said.

He shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. 'If you want.' But, Merlin did he want more than that.

She seemed to deflate. 'Draco, we'd ruin everything. We've both got...very demanding personalities. Can you really see us working out?'

_Yes_. 'Maybe.'

'Maybe won't help us if we begin to hate one another, but still have to share the same lab, the same friends, and your mother.'

'It's _already happened_, Granger,' he said. 'Whatever damage that might be done is done. Stop using your rational human side for half a second and use your irrational werewolf side. I smell right to you. Admit it. I smell like your mate. I always have done, just like you've always smelled like _mine_.'

Her eyes widened, and he knew he was right. He could smell her, too, after all. And all these years, she'd smelled like the only good thing in the room, no matter where they were. Their werewolf sides had chosen one another, that was true. But that didn't mean that their human sides had to choose one another, too. And that's what he was afraid of, that, when it came down to it, Hermione would be the one to ignore the werewolf in her.

And wouldn't that be hilarious? She was the one who felt perfectly fine about her lycanthropy, and he was the one who rather hated it. Yet, now, it seemed, he would be the one embracing it, while she tried to distance herself.

Draco would not have it. 'Just—don't say no yet. Think about it, if you have to. Just don't say no.'

Hermione frowned. But after a moment of tense silence, she did nod, and Draco let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. 'Okay,' she said. 'I won't say no.'

That was the best he was going to get right now. And as his father would say, 'The best one is going to get is much less than what a Malfoy will get,' so that rather settled things. He'd just have to get more. It was time, he supposed, to take up his own political campaign. He'd leave the werewolf ones to Hermione.

His campaign was one for her heart—and because it was Hermione, her head, too.


End file.
